The Price of Permanence
by Pastiche Pen
Summary: Edward Cullen is marrying the perfect woman - except that she's not his version of perfect. How does he catch the woman who is? EPOV Companion to Sin & Incivility. Mature. All-human.
1. Ch1

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer wuddnta written this.

A/N: Okay, m'lovelies, this was a _longass time a'_coming (like a year), but needless to say, the storyline's been in my head for almost as long, so I was happy to finally get this out. For all of you newcomers, this is the companion piece (in Edward's POV) to _Sin & Incivility_, a rather smut-filled novella I wrote last December. I honestly recommend reading that one first, though it's certainly not required. I'd like to think that Edward's story stands on it's own. Like the last one, this one will be seven chapters.

**Be sure to check out the Slash Backslash contest that AG and I are hosting. (See my profile.)

A special thanks to everyone who voted for _Sin_ in the Indies, and extra LOVE goes out to gallantcorkscrews and Angstgoddess for pre-reading, and the brilliant ElleCC for beta'ing this shiz.

* * *

. . . . .. . . . . ... .. . .. . . . . .

"Same Bed, Different Dreams."

- Chinese Proverb

.. . . . . . .. .. .. . . . .. . . . . ...

The first time Rosalie met him, he was drunk.

She was sooo hot.

"_You_ are Edward Cullen?" She looked disappointed.

"_Hale_-ooo! I know your name, Rosalie. My mom told me."

"Right. Give me your phone." She took his phone and began pressing buttons. _It was mesmerizing_. "Call me... _not _from a frat party." She gave him a tight smile.

He gave his friends the double thumbs up as she walked away.

Instead of laughing, they shook their heads at him. Apparently, he'd fucked that up.

Rosalie forgave him when she met his car. Rosie talked about cars the way that ranchers talked about horses, as if they were _alive_. As if you could predict the next generation based on the genetic viability of the current stock. As if training could win a race.

Everyone was impressed.

He was, too.

When college ended, he asked her to marry him.

Everyone said he was the luckiest fuck alive.

. . . . .. . . . . ..... . . . . . .. .. .

"What time is it?" he asks in a sleep-garbled voice, eyes blinking in the dark and trying to make out the red lines on the alarm clock.

"5:43."

"Fuck. Twenty minutes," he groans, and then he rolls back over, squishing one of the twenty-odd pillows under his face. Enough pillows to build a second bed.

He is ready to dose off again when hears the repositioning of blankets—the duvet is pulled out from where it was comfortably wedged under his armpit, and then he feels a warm finger touch at the base of his spine, and then the pressure of a whole palm, moving around his waist until it thumbs his hip bone and skids down until it gropes...

Edward tenses with her grip.

_Cruel, cruel woman._

The morning stiffness is already there, and the way her soft fingers are brushing up and down—he involuntary jerks beneath her finger pads. A half-yawn, but mostly guttural groan, travels up his throat. One truth has become clear: Edward is not going back to sleep.

_Cruel, cruel woman._

"What are you...?" he croaks in the dark.

"Don't be thick," she warns waspishly, but then in a softer voice, she whispers, "This will be the last time we—you know—for—"

She doesn't finish the sentence because he doesn't let her. He leans down through the dark and kisses her, a simple peck.

She lets go of him then, only to grab his shoulder and pull him closer. She's wearing an old t-shirt and nothing else, so it's easy for him to slide his hand under and let his fingers climb along the dip of stomach until he can cup her breast, rubbing circles until her nipples harden. He makes sure to cup and knead before he pinches them, and even more importantly, to bite her neck when he pinches.

If he does it right, she always moans loudly, and now, at this moment, she moans with a gritty roll at the finish of Edward's motion, and her fingernails go for his ass. She yanks him against her, her mouth moving against his neck as her hips rolls against his prick, the tickling curls and persistent pressure egging him on.

He kisses her again and then tries to kiss her deeper, but her lips stay tightly shut. She doesn't like "pre-dawn spit." Disgusting morning breath and all.

But she does dive for his ear. After she bites it, she whispers, "Ready," and then she rolls over.

Gripping her upper thigh, he tries to slide in a finger with his free hand, but he realizes that she's already quite wet at the same time that she shakes her head. "I'm ready," she repeats.

He aligns himself then, and she lowers herself onto her elbows to adjust the angle.

He pushes. Slides in.

The entrance is always the...

The heat. Tight and... _Holy fuck_. His eyes roll back into his brain and threaten to stay there.

His hips are thrusting. She is bent and breathing out with each thrust, and he can't see her face, but her blond hair is a furious mess, and he wishes she wasn't wearing the goddamn t-shirt because her back feels fucking perfect when he does her this way, but nevertheless he's practically eating her hair, and he stops to push it aside.

But then Rosalie pushes him over. There's the cold wash of air and the bobbing freedom.

She's had enough of that position, so it would seem.

She rolls onto her back, snatches a pillow and puts it under her hips, both legs hiked high in the air. "This way," she says.

He comes up against her, and each knee bends over his shoulders, and a brief bit of fumbling in the dark, but then he's in.

The heat again.

And so deep.

Her back is arched. Her shirt is bunched up so that he has a view of the under-curves of her breasts. They look fucking gorgeous and disproportionately full with the way her body is shivering. His hands seem huge on the sides of her small waist. Her mouth is open. The moonlight is falling in strange lines across her face through the window blinds.

"Harder, fucking. Just. Pound. Hard. Harder. You know," she spits out the words between irregular pauses.

"You feel..." Edward breathes out, trying to say something.

"**—**you feel _amazing_," she responds through a moan. She lifts her head only to slam it back into the pillow. "Fucking harder!"

He muses internally that it's a good thing he's an athlete. He slams and pounds, and her arms are braced backward, gripping the rungs of the headboard. He worries that he might hurt her. He always fears such possibilities when they're like this. That he might push too deep or press too hard. That she might not tell him to stop.

But he knows that's wrong. Rosalie is not one to hold back. The jerking fury in her hips reminds him of this.

Edward knows he's close when he's more worried about not coming than anything else.

He's trying to focus on her whines. On the buildup of her hissed pants. The clenching of her ass. He tried to focus on _her her her. Rosalie. Rosalie_. At a certain point, he gives up. The tension and euphoria are too great. He wants to give in—and really, he doesn't have a choice: his dick always wins in these battles.

So give in, he does. With a sputtered groan.

He keeps pounding afterwards though, for as many strokes as he can manage.

It seems to work.

When he pulls out, she's smiling.

She kisses him softly on the lips. "You shower first?" she asks.

He nods.

He walks naked to the bathroom.

. . . . .. . . . . ..... . . . . . .. .. .

He's shoving suitcases into the back of Dad's Mercedes when Emmett's four-wheeler pulls up. His greets him with a bellow of, "Morning!" before hopping out to open the back door and unbuckle and then tug Del out.

After Emmett tosses the diaper bag over one shoulder, clutches a giggling, cooing Del in one arm, and loops his index finger through his coffee mug, he strides up to Edward. "Need help?" he asks jokingly.

Tossing the last bag in the car, Edward smiles widely. "You made it! Now, hand over my niece, you idiot." He holds out his arms.

"Nice to see you, too—and just so you know, she doesn't love you. Only me," Emmett jokes again, making a show of clutching both arms (including the coffee mug) around his daughter, her face buried in his chest.

"Eeeee!!!" Del protests at having her eyes covered, more giggles erupting.

Edward manages to get a grip on her between Emmett's arms, and then he shrugs her out, shaking his head at Emmett while burying a kiss into Del's shiny ringlets.

Their banter comes to a halt when the garage door is thrown open. Rosalie sails down the steps, only to stop when she sees the newcomers. She gives them both a quick wave, but once she sees Del, she can't seem to look away. "Your niece?" she asks. She's asking even though she already knows. Edward's told her about the whole affair, how Emmett suddenly found himself a single father, how he's made the best of it.

"Yeah, this is Del," Edward replies. "And as usual, ignore that cretin just behind me."

"Nice to see you again," she greets Emmett with a smile.

Emmett smiles his huge smile. "Wow, and nice to see you again, Rose. Sorry, I missed the engagement party. Had little people business to attend to in Texas." He gestures at Del by way of explanation. "Although I heard about that red number you wore, and I bet that—"

Edward tries to kick him.

"Hey, watch it with my daughter!"

"Watch it with my fiancée."

"Fair deal." Emmett shrugs playfully, giving an exaggerated wink at Rose.

Rose, however, isn't focused on either Edward or Emmett. She is leaning forward slightly, her attention totally focused on tiny Del. The two of them are both staring, Rosalie with a warm smile, and Del with the shy one that she uses for strangers now. They stare for a moment but then the moment becomes picture perfect, because Del's shyness breaks, and she extends her chubby arms out toward Rosalie.

"May I?" Rosalie asks with excitement, and with a nod, Edward passes the baby to her, and then Rosalie is clutching her close. Del's tiny fingers grab a strand of Rosalie's blond hair. Rose smiles at her. She strokes Del's cheek while telling her how pretty she is.

Rosalie's engagement ring catches the light and sparkles as her fingers move back and forth.

Edward is staring. Not just because of the simple sweetness of the moment, but because he's never seen Rose like this. Rose doesn't do sentimentality. She doesn't do cute. She's what you might call the opposite of a hopeless romantic. But she looks radiant holding Del.

He's leaving. Off to China. The Peace Corps awaits him. Two full years. He'd been nothing but excited before. He's been eager to leave for the past month. Chomping at the bit, practically. Sure, he would miss Rose, his family, and his friends. But now, for the first time—there's a new feeling.

Edward feels like he has something to come back to.

.. . . . . . .. .. .. . . . .. . . . . ...


	2. Ch2

disclaimer: i make no money from this...

_but _speaking of money....

a/n: i am participating in the **Fandom Gives Back** auction! www . thefandomgivesback . com - i've agreed to write a short story/novella/outtake up to 20k or so (PoP n' S&I are roughly that amount) for the sake of fighting childhood cancer - it's for Alex's Lemonade Stand, a registered charity. Bidding starts 11/15 and lasts through 11/20.

what i'm reading: an Alice fic, _Mary Full of Grace_ by EliseMontgomery, which is haunting and gorgeous, and er, then i've been reading slash. of note, beautifulfigment's stuff: it is all good. also, AG and i are running the SlashBackslash contest (see profile). some of them are so coo-worthy, giggle-worthy, swoon-worthy, so check 'em out.

i'll be updating _PoP_ on Saturdays and Wednesdays from here on out. I'll be posting teasers on adifferentforest . com in "my author cabin."

finally, a special thanks to ElleCC (whose PERFECT Peter/Jasper one-shot should also be read and savored) for beta'ing, and then to AG for pre-reading and lastly, to gallantcorkscrews, who saves me from being boring—by making me rewrite crap—but eh, whatever... Heh.

* * *

"You won't help shoots grow by pulling them up higher."  
- _Chinese Proverb_

* * *

They like to tell to think "big, happy thoughts" when you're a kid.

"Choose your own adventure."

"You can be anything you want to be."

"Live the dream."

"Reach for the stars."

All that crap.

What they don't tell you is that happy thoughts really mean a_ nine-to-five_.

It means that you study Plato so you can call yourself qualified to fill-in a spreadsheet.

You do what they say, though. You get the diploma. You "enrich" yourself.

You do it because you want to fit the bill, the brand, the shiny label.

But labels are meaningless.

Dreams are, too.

* * *

"I'm not forcing you to take the job. I'm asking you to consider it," Dad says, his arms crossed as he leans forward over his desk.

Edward scoffs. "Give the position to someone who wants it."

His dad slumps back in his chair. "You're not even _considering _it." He shakes his head sadly and then turns to frown at the family picture at the corner of his desk. "But then you haven't been considerate of much of anything for a while now..."

Edward snaps forward in his chair. "_Come on_, Dad. Give me the lecture, and let's get it over with."

Dad crosses his arms again and leans back. "You know I'm selling the company. You've known this for years. Once the company goes public—I can't exactly hire my children. Right now, it's pretty much expected—you've been groomed for the job, and it's been a family business for—"

"Emmett and you work there. That's it."

"And Rosalie," he points out.

Edward makes no reply.

"Who, _by the way_, has waited patiently on you to set a date for five years, Edward. She's been nothing but devoted to this family—she's a great addition to the company. She helps Em with Del. Your mother loves her—"

"Dad, I—"

"No. I need to be frank, Edward. You're not eighteen. You are twenty-eight. You need to shit or get off the pot. You can't pretend to be a little boy forever. You need to be honest with yourself and the rest of us. Now, if you want to live like a wayward hippie, that's fine. Go live like a hippie—but _I _am not paying for it. Yes, I understand that that you want all play and no work—but that's not the way life works. I left medicine to build this business—even though it wasn't what I originally set out to do, but now I can say I've provided my family with every material opportunity for success, and I can focus on doing what I care about—but that's because I _earned _it. What have you earned, Edward?"

Edward closes his eyes, and for a second, he thinks about arguing the merits of the situation. He's never asked for the money—it'd been automatically deposited into his bank account, but then he stops himself from arguing. Money isn't the point. When Edward opens his eyes again, he looks at the ceiling. "I think it's great you're finally doing Doctors Without Borders. It means a lot."

Dad nods and sighs. "Edward, I wish I could give you more time. I wish I could give you everything, but sometimes you have to take responsibility for burdens that aren't completely yours. Sometimes to be true to yourself, you have to be fair to other people—even when it's not easy on you."

"It's just that I..." Edward opens his mouth to speak but then falls short of saying anything. All of his excuses seem half-assed. So what if he and Rose can only talk about cars and sports and Del? So what if working at a medical supply company isn't as enlivening as playing the piano and tutoring in music for next to nothing? So what if he has this feeling that he is missing out on something?

His father, across the table, is watching Edward with anxious speculation. Dad really does want what's best for him—and it's true: his dad worked his ass off over the years to grow the company, put in long hours, and sacrificed his own dreams for his family. Now, it's like Edward is turning his back on all that his parents have given him—at the exact time his father finally lets go to pursue his own dreams.

"I'll consider it," Edward agrees.

* * *

He is lead to the poetry alcove by an older woman (whom he presumes to be the owner) with frizzy hair and a sparkling, New Age dress. She strides ahead of him with an awkward shift in her gait, as she keeps jerking back to smile at him.

He tries to smile back, but there's a part of him that's unnerved by her blue-purple tooth.

Then, when they finally emerge from the maze of shelves, she smiles and gestures with her arm as if to introduce this area of the store, but her open mouth stays open, and her eyes blink rapidly. He's half-worried she's going to faint, but when he holds out his hand to offer help, she squeaks—and then rushes away.

He doesn't think his mood is _that _off-putting, but really, his mood is so sufficiently dower that he cannot bring himself to care about his impact on much of anything. Even so, Edward feels the need to connect somehow—to shape this melancholy in his chest into something beyond sad stupor. He wants to define it, and then let it go in intangible flight.

That's why he's here.

He finds the books he wants quite easily. They're on the second to bottom shelf, so he has to kneel. He pulls them out one at a time, carefully examining them. There's the typical volume of Tang era poetry, which he almost begins to read—until he discovers the thin pamphlet at its side. He pinches the binding and pulls it out. _The Poems of Li Po_.

The title and memories it dredges up are enough to make him smile. He runs his fingers down the cover, feeling the bumps in the used and battered copy. He likes this somehow—the fact that someone has read these words before. It feels appropriate. He plunks himself down on the chipped and checkered floor and begins to flip through the pages. He finds the famous poem quite easily:

_A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;  
I drink alone, for no friend is near.  
Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,  
For her, with my shadow, will make three people.  
The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine;  
Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side.  
Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave  
I must make merry before the spring is spent.  
To the songs I sing, the moon flickers her beams;  
In the dance I weave, my shadow tangles and breaks.  
While we were sober, three shared the fun;  
Now we are drunk, each goes their way.  
May we long share our eternal friendship,  
And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky._

_-_Li Po_, Drinking Alone in the Moonlight_

He tries remembering the pronunciation in Chinese. As with any poem, the native version sounds far superior to the translation. In Chinese, it's about the perfect symmetry of characters and sound. Edward only gets as far as the first three lines before his memory begins to trip... It's been so long. Yao-Yao would shake her head at him if she knew.

_Yao-Yao_...

Those memories threaten to suffocate, so he tries to focus on anything else to rationalize away his sentiments. He's here because he finally said, "yes," because he agreed to take the job. Because he's finally taking responsibility. Because Rosalie laughed and said, "it's about time." Because Emmett clapped him on the shoulder and said, "jail mates now," with a half-sarcastic, half-serious sigh.

As his head begins to clench, he realizes that these thoughts are not helping. He focuses down on the small book again. He's flipped away from the poem, but now a thin cardstock picture is jutting out, and Edward sees that it's a landscape inked and painted by Wang Wei.

_Yao-Yao had explained to him in her "teach-the-tourist" tone of voice, which always involved far more words than necessary to make simple points. "China has many famous landscapes. This is because in dynasty times Confucian scholars and officials like to see them." She glanced up at him to make sure he was listening. When she saw that he was, she continued, "They think they are very beautiful, because in Beijing, they are very busy. They do not have time because they are always in library or at desk. They are always reading books. They don't have time to see the beautiful mountains and clear rivers and trees in the countryside. This is why they like landscape pictures and poetry. They like to dream—" she held her hands up in the air as she could see a vision he could not "—about beautiful landscapes."_

"_Weren't there beautiful places in the city?" Edward had asked._

_Yao-Yao had sat for a moment, studying both his face and the unfurled landscape scroll. "The city is never as beautiful as this," she began, but then she paused again. "This." She pointed at the scroll. "It is like a dream—but is not."_

"_I don't understand," he told her._

"_This dream is permanent."_

"_All paintings are permanent."_

_She shook her head with a smirk. "But all paintings... They are not real dreams. Only real dreams have meaning. Some are like water—they flow down the river. They say goodbye, and we forget them, but others," and here she smiled mysteriously, "are like the water's flow. We do not watch them. We move together with them. They are permanent."_

He is lost in this memory when the noise recalls him to his surroundings. He sees the odd bookstore lady scampering down the hall.

Then he notices the girl_—_or _woman_, really. He notices first the pale contrast of her skin to her dark hair and eyes. She's standing in a stiff pose, which she relaxes out of at his glance, and he almost catches her expression—but she moves too quickly—and he only glimpses a hint of a blush as she unfreezes and strides into his once-solitary alcove.

She's ignoring him, but she's not. He can tell. He wonders if she can feel his eyes on her back.

He realizes after a minute that he's been staring, and so he forces himself back to his small pamphlet.

He's rereading then, but it's not helping, and he's only wishing that he wasn't here. Yao-Yao's words are repeating like a chorus line in his head, and he's wondering how anyone can feel that the world isn't a dream, because no matter what his father or anyone says to him, it only seems a farce—an awful construct, a set of rules designed to pass the days. A trudge up the hill and down. None of it seems real, and those who would tell him otherwise are becoming dust in the earth or are too busy with their own version of the mundane to snap him out of this...

Whatever this is.

A dream?

No. He could only wish.

He's lost in his own twist of emotion, memory, and thought, when there's the invasion of a foreign presence. It's only with the sweep of the wet across his cheek that he realizes he must have been crying, and it's only with the lingering brush of soft, feminine fingers that he recognizes that he is not alone.

"Are you all right?" she whispers.

At first, he half-wonders if she's a ghost, though in a different part of his brain, he recognizes her as the girl on the other side of the alcove.

Dream or not? He wants to know if she's real.

She is. She's pale and slight. _Fragile_, he thinks, and with her wide-eyed expression, she looks especially doe-like. She's looking at him with some combination of apprehension and compassion, like she doesn't know whether to run or climb closer. His emotions are controlling him at any rate, and it's as if his hand moves before he can stop it. He reaches up and brushes his hand along her cheekbone.

"You're not sad, but you're lost." He says the words as much to comfort her in this act as to give himself justification for his own action.

But when his hand brushes her cheek, his nerves alight with some tingling current. He shivers. It's a strange combination of tingle and numbness.

When he opens his eyes, hers are still closed, but then her lips part. Her eyes flutter. She looks like she's going to fall backwards, and she sets down her pile of books on the floor before putting both hands down to brace herself. She's still confused when she looks at him and asks, "Why are you crying?"

_I'm no longer crying. I am looking at you._

But that's not what she meant. She'd asked, _"Why are you crying?"_

She wants to understand, he realizes, and yet, he can't help but find a certain amount of comedy in her question, because she's quoting Disney's _Peter Pan_ word-for-word, and so that's how he chooses to answer her. With a smile, he explains, "Well, Wendy, darling, I seemed to have lost my shadow."

She obviously gets the reference because she snorts loudly before slapping her hand over her mouth, looking embarrassed at the odd little noise she's made, but the embarrassment last only a second before she takes a deep breath and says, "Well, I'll have to sew it back on, young Peter. In fact…" She trails off, and he can tell she's doing it for effect. "I'm quite skilled with a needle and thread. But I say," her eyes joke with him, "it seems I'm missing my thimble."

The way she says it, he wonders what _else _she's skilled at, but then he mentally kicks himself, because he's thinking about sex, and she's _playing along_ with his silly game. He smiles and replies, "Be careful, there are fairies that steal away thimbles," with a face he knows must be perfectly straight.

With a face just as straight, she argues with a hand on her hip, "But they bring fairy dust."

"And one needs the fairy dust to go to Never-Never-Land," he finishes, but then he's back to thinking about death again—back to where he started. He snaps his gaze away, and he knows whatever this moment with this girl was supposed to be—he's gone and _ruined _it.

Except that she's still there. Her face is compassionate. No longer playful. "Is that why you're sad? You never want to grow up?" she asks.

There's a half a second where his father's words from earlier that day seem to bounce off the moment he's in now. The irony of it all brings a torrent of laughter. He can barely see straight because he's suddenly laughing so hard—and while he knows that bookstores aren't libraries, he knows he's being too loud, so it's with long, deep breaths that he manages to calm himself. When he looks up, he sees he's completely baffled her again. "I'm afraid I grew up too fast," he explains.

"Ah, I see." She nods.

"Do you?" he asks. He wonders what it is she sees.

"Well, my mother always told me I was born thirty-five, and just grew older every year."

It makes him smile. She believes she's never even been a child, and yet he somehow doubts that. Boring adults do not make up Peter Pan dialog with teary-eyed saps in poetry alcoves. _She is something else entirely_, he decides, and he wants to figure out what that is. "Would you tell me your name?" he asks.

"Bella."

He has his answer. Her name is Italian, though she is obviously not. "_Beautiful_," he murmurs. "It fits."

She blushes. It makes her pallor disappear, and the height of her cheekbones comes into view. It dawns on him that she is not merely pretty or cute. "And that flush of pink is even more breathtaking," he whispers.

He realizes he's hitting on her, but for some reason can't be bothered to stop.

"What's your name?" she asks, a small smile on her lips.

He smiles. He's seen her book pile, _Sense and Sensibility _at the top, and he's suddenly repenting the groans he'd given his eleventh grade English teacher. "I'll let you figure it out."

"That's not fair. I told you mine." Her bottom lip is jutting out.

He's enjoying this too much_—_the odd relief of being free from his so-called life. Of being in her presence. He can't help it. He teases her. "My name is one of the main characters in that stack that you're holding."

"Which book?"

"The top one."

"Well, certainly not Willoughby," she mutters, looking rather frustrated. "And you don't seem like a Brandon…" She suddenly smiles at him. "You're not Edward, are you?"

"Edward, I am," he confesses with a laugh.

Her brow furrows then. She looks contemplative as she speaks her thoughts aloud. "You know, Edward in the book is a bit boring."

"Do you think _I_ am boring?" he asks incredulously.

She flushes again. "No, I think you're anything but boring." And then she's staring down at her hands, looking embarrassed again, but this time it's for complimenting him.

She thinks she's said too much, revealed too much.

Edward wants to say something, but words fail him, so he reaches out for her instead. He pulls her against him, her entire body, fragile and soft and dream-like, pressed against his. "Is this okay?" he whispers. _It has to be._

"It feels right," she answers.

The surreality of the situation is getting to him. Nothing is supposed to be this easy. People aren't supposed to respond to each other this way. He's only ever known polite friendships that grew over time and romance that happened through satisfying sex and lots of dates at nice restaurants. He doesn't know _this_. Whatever _this _is. But he knows that it's not ordinary. That it means something. "Tell me," he insists. "Do you feel this?" He runs his hand along her cheek and then brings her fingers to touch his own face.

Her eyes grow wide, and she nods.

Touching her is addictive. Her fast breaths are drawing him in, and he has this sense that if he keeps up the contact, the surrounding world will fade away. Wanting whatever she will give him, he leans forward and lets his head rest ever so gently on hers. His lips are at the corner of her brow, and when she moves slightly, his lips brush her skin for the briefest of touches.

She gasps, and he feels her tighten in his arms.

They sit like that for a moment with the tingling numbness overwhelming every other sensation.

After a moment, it's too much, and he pulls back, so that he can look into her eyes. They're soft and warm—intelligent but the opposite of judgmental. Then there are her lips... Their lips are so close. They're both breathing hard, and there's the additional echo—he can almost feel his own breath hitting her mouth and bouncing back into his own.

His lips move to meet hers—but then—the image—

_Rosalie_. _His father. His family._

He jerks away with an "I can't" falling from his lips.

The walls fall down. The room is cold.

He's fucked up. Bella tries to pull away, but he won't let her. He _won't_. He needs to make her understand. "Bella," he breathes her name urgently. "It's just that I have an obligation."

Her own face freezes and then unfreezes. She nods.

She understands. It's okay. He needs it to be okay, so he explains in a rush, "I want to see you again. It's just—I don't want us to be burdened by anything." He has to reorient his life.

She nods again, her fingers touch his face, and then she asks, "When?"

"Tomorrow morning. Can I see you here tomorrow morning?" His voice goes a little high, and it's like he's pleading.

"I want that," she affirms in a breath of words.

She wants him. Even if he's a little lost boy.

It shouldn't mean anything, but it means everything.

He pulls her against him, wishing he could tell her all, wishing he were free of every chain. He wishes he could be hers and that she could be his, and that the world around them couldn't say anything about it. He wishes she were the future and not just the ephemeral present. He's being sappy at the same time that he's thinking with his dick again, but he starts seeing images of brown-haired children and her legs hanging from a country tire swing and midnight love-making on front porch benches and amid sweaty sheets. He only half-knows that he's doing it when he gently lifts up the bottom of her shirt and presses his hand into the soft skin of her abdomen, holding it there while his lips are planting affectionate brushes on her nose, her cheeks, and her eyes.

He realizes he's going too far, but he still needs to—_show_—her. He leans down so that his lips are at her forehead, and then presses his lips firmly, intensely, and passionately against her, as if kisses above the eyebrows can say, _I think I just fell for you_.

Then he knows he has to leave—he doesn't know what he'll do if he stays.

"This should be permanent," he whispers, and then he makes himself stand up. "Tomorrow," he promises. He lets his finger brush her lips a final time, and then he walks away.

He exits the store with the sensation of only air beneath his feet.

He could fucking fly.


	3. Ch3

a/n: 1. i don't own Twilight. 2. we step back in time to Edward's "peace corps" days in China this chapter (the heart fail comes _next chapter_) - special fact about me, i speak chinese. 3. thanks to gallantcorkscrews for encouraging the Daoist stuff. 4. ElleCC is worship-able. Thanks for beta'ing, m'dear. :-)

* * *

_There is nothing you can do about the world.  
You can only follow what is natural in pushing the myriad things ahead.  
There is no getting to the bottom of the changes they undergo.  
You can only grasp the essential destination and lead them there.  
— __Huai Nanzi_

* * *

He remembers her explanations clearer than she ever explained them.

Memory does that, he knows.

_Societies are systems. Steps built by generations. By professions passed down from parent to child. By stones upon stones that form low walls, then high walls, which someday shape themselves into cities_.

_There are a Few_, she had said, _among any society, who don't belong to these steps._

_And yet, _and here she frowned,_ we demand, "Sing, little bird. Dance-dance. You get three very, very generous weeks of holiday!"_

_Some of the Few will bend_, she explained, her smile secretive, _but others will not. They shall slide between the bars like ghosts. They will steal the key, kick down the jail house door, and ride toward the horizon with the breeze on their backs and adventure as their sturdy mounts._

The rest he knows is his own imaginings, the relic of grief: her eyes, though showing early wrinkles, are bright and healthy. Her voice not coming from her lips but from the melody of the stringed instrument being plucked by her fingers.

_Join us, we Few. Join us_, he hears her strum.

_Set out:_

_Let the strings and arrows fling loose like a sail unfurled with the first breath of wind._

_Rise with the sun.  
Drink with the moon.  
Sleep with the cloudy droll of midday._

_May __only death wake you._

* * *

When he first arrives, there's the long plane ride. Then, there's the way people smell different_—_it's hard to distinguish but there's the absence of that western powdery scent and the prevalence of a much brinier tinge of perspiration. Then there's the sheer number of people. The colors, too, are a shock. Though the sky seems to be a continuous, musty gray, the rainbow catching his eye from the street vendors is a swirl of Hello Kitty pink and New Year red and rising sun yellow. People are everywhere. People. School boys hold hands without any hesitation. The bicycle rickshaws battle for the streets with the taxicabs. He learns to assume that any dish could make his mouth either burn or go numb or both. Everything is cheaper, and yet everyone is trying to charge him so much more. So many people.

Overtime, he leaves the tourist behind (one can only see a Giant panda a dozen times...) and becomes a student of it all. Yao-Yao helps with her eager explanations. By and by, he understands it better. Every university student he meets is half-begging, "would you like to be my English language partner, please?" The old ladies are sour-faced because in their Confucian youth they had to defer to every elder—but now these post-communist youth have no manners. The youth don't defer, so the old ladies are harsh: they demand deference with their brittle elbows. He's taller than almost everyone—and it's a regular joke. Shorter men hold their hands up, hopping as if to tease him about his height, and even though his Chinese isn't good enough to understand their words, they speak to him like he gets every syllable. Finally, there are the girls. They ask to take his picture. They bat their eyelashes and ask him questions and won't leave until he excuses himself by tapping his watch and running away. It's always leaves him with a feeling of no space—and he thought he'd adjusted to the usual crush of things.

At first, he comes to Chengdu at every opportunity. He comes with Alice and Jasper at first. Eventually he drags along Yao-Yao. Then after some time, they feel no need to visit the city except for supplies.

Edward meets Yao-Yao because she teaches music in his village. She grew up in the village, but then she left and ran off to Canton for ten years. She'd wanted to be in the Opera, and she had been—eventually. She learned English there. She'd also gotten sick there.

Edward, Alice, and Jasper all teach English at middle schools in the rural villages for Peace Corps. He and Jasper are at one school. Alice teaches at the school to the North.

Alice is in love with Jasper.

Yao-Yao is the one who makes Edward realize this. They are listening to young Cao Meng attempt a village ditty on the reed pipe while Yao-Yao argues her point. "She visits every week."

"We are the only other Americans in a forty-mile radius."

"She loves him," Yao-Yao repeats. "When she sees him, look at her. Her eyes do not hide her love."

"They haven't known each other that long."

She shrugs. "How long do two sides of the same heart need?"

Edward rolls his eyes at the cheesiness, but then, the next time Alice visits, Edward looks.

Yao-Yao is right.

"As usual."

She laughs when he admits it to her. Then, Yao-Yao coughs a lot. He lightly hits her back and hands her a cloth as he always does.

"You are so good," she says, nodding and smiling warmly at him through the cloth over her mouth.

"Are you taking the medicine that my dad sent?" he asks with concern.

"I take it 'as directed,'" she jokes in her "American accent voice," but her joking is a cover_—_and they both know it. If the medicine isn't working that means... Edward doesn't let himself think about it. The medicine would have only slowed it down, anyway. He refuses to ponder the futility.

Yao-Yao always tells him that words like "futility" are used by people trying to justify being already dead. Yao-Yao's still composing new songs, about which she smiles and insists, "There's nothing dead about that."

That night, they all get drunk on liquor bought from the "China Tobacco Wine" shop.

At some point, Alice is lost in conversation with Yao-Yao, and Edward gets a chance to bug Jasper.

"So, Jasper, my comrade." Edward flings an arm over Jasper's shoulder. "Do you like Alice in a..." He trails off, forgetting what he was going to say.

Jasper looks at Edward for a second, before rolling his eyes and repeating back to him, "Do I like Alice in a...?"

"Oh, right, right! Do you like Alice in a sexual way?"

Jasper stares at him.

Edward is certain that he's been misunderstood, so he explains, "I mean, do you like want to fuck and hang out with her and fuck and smile and all that?"

Jasper's face flattens, and then he pushes Edward's arm off his shoulder and starts to stand.

"It's just that she _loves _you," Edward tries to explain, though his vowels sound all oblong. Jasper needs to _understand_.

Jasper stops mid-stand and then sits back down again on the bench. "What did you say?"

"Well, I know she's ga-ga for you_—_but the question is: are you ga-ga for her?" Edward holds his glass high in the air and gives Jasper the "_so take that!_" look.

Jasper is seemingly affected by Edward's question. He's quiet for a moment, but then he whispers, "Yeah, I like Alice," and then he grins and turns to face Edward and says, "in a sexual way that makes me want to see her smile."

Edward laughs and then slams down his glass. "I KNEW it!" he cheers, and the fluid inside his glass sloshes and spills onto the table.

Jasper is shaking his head in amusement. "Man, we need to fucking get you hydrated and in bed. Why the hell did you drink so much?" He's already shoving a glass of water into Edward's hands and dumping Edward's cup of _bai-jiu_ beneath the bench.

Why _did _he drink so much? Edward ponders. Then he recalls, and his face falls. "Yao-Yao is sick. It makes me sad."

Jasper knows this, but he's not as close to her as Edward is, so he simply nods and pats Edward on the back. "I know," is all that Jasper says in a soft voice.

They both continue drinking water, and then Jasper asks, "Do you miss her?"

_Yao-Yao isn't gone yet. _"Who?"

"Your fiancée?"

"Oh, sure I do, but we email."

"You never talk about her."

"Oh, that's bad isn't it?"

"Shit, Edward. Let's get you to bed."

"Goo-_oo_d idea."

. . . . . .. .

He's woken in the middle of the night by the sound of heavy breathing and a faint thumping.

Jasper and Edward share a room in one-room apartment by the river. The view between their beds is obscured by a tall bamboo screen.

Edward has a headache. The noises aren't helping. He almost protests the sounds, but then his ear begins to decipher the general thrust of the conversation.

"Why—didn't—you—say—something? I—"

"Shhhh."

"Shhhh," is hissed and giggled back. "I'm just so happy."

A gasp.

"Do that again."

Gasp.

"Again."

A female moan.

"Shhhh."

"You think Edward might wake up?"

"Edward was singing Bon Jovi to a rock—he's out _cold_."

"Then why are you shushing me?"

"Shhh."

A light slap sound. Then a giggle. In his sleepy haze, Edward expects to hear some further rejoinder, but instead, there are only the more subtle sounds of the springs in the mattress creaking and those odd noises of lovemaking, like slurps and wheezy breaths and squeaky kisses. Edward is drunk and sleepy enough that he almost goes back to sleep, but then he hears a, "Yes. I said yes," followed by another loud squeak of springs. "Yes, please, yes. Yes. Just slow. It's been..."

Then there is a gasp.

A masculine whisper of, "Sweet Jesus."

Lots of heavy breathing.

The squeaks of mattress grow loud. There is a dull thumping against the wood wall.

Edward has a partial erection. He can't help it. He is listening to _sex_. Naturally, his lower machinery is interested but too alcohol laden to go full mast—which is the _worst_—so he makes himself imagine any number of nasty memories: Emmett farting. The taste of rancid milk with tea. Fat, pocked-marked old men baring their stomachs.

But the foulness isn't sticking—what sticks are the slapping, squeaking sounds. At first, Edward simply trusts Jasper's endurance to be shit after not having gotten any in a long-ass time, but then Jasper is proving to be a Texan stallion, so Edward gives up and tries to imagine nothing and nothing and nothing. He is almost there until he hears Alice go soprano at the same time that he hears Jasper supply the staccato-grunted base line. Edward covers his ears with his pillow, but it's no use.

Then, there are just the quiet sounds of breathing.

Some moments later, Edward is beginning to drift off again when he hears the exchange of words.

"I love you."

"I love you, too. I love you," she whispers her reply in the dark.

With those words hanging in the air, Edward lets drunken sleep pull him under.

. … . ……. . . . .

Yao-Yao collapses one late fall morning. She was holding a zither, which released a _clang-zing-rang _as if to herald her finale.

Edward gets Wu Bo to drive her, Jasper, and himself to the hospital in Chengdu.

They tell him they will make her comfortable.

His idea of comfortable and the hospital staff's don't seem to match, but Yao-Yao tells him, "Get a chair and cup of tea—or I'll get out of my bed and get one for you."

He gets them both tea; himself, a chair.

He's at her side for three days. They discuss many things: his family, her past, Rosalie, what is meaningful, and what is not.

"What will you miss?" he asks from his bedside stool.

"Everything and nothing," Yao-Yao intones in a fake, _sotto _voice, and then she laughs before he can protest her answer.

He crosses his arms and gives her a patient look.

She smiles back. "I will miss you," she promises, and she reaches out her hand to cover the top of his. "I will miss the children, all of the students and their young smiles. Also, I will miss my songs." Then, she gives a cough and murmurs, "But I will not miss the pain. I wish I could clap my hands and make this quick." Edward blanches at her words, so she reassures him again, "I will miss you, but you should not dwell. I want you to 'go with the flow,' kiss many, many pretty girls with a lot of tongue, and you will forget me soon enough."

"I would not..."

"I mean that I want you happy. That is why I give you all this talk of rivers and dreams."

"Remarkably, I caught that."

She laughs again. Then, another round of hoarse coughing. She covers her mouth with the sterile cloth until the hacking ceases. In a dry voice, she continues, "So, yes, like I told you. Rivers and flows, so once I'm gone—"

"Yao-Yao," Edward scolds.

"—just go for a swim in the river. I'll be there. Maybe, in my next life, I am at the river, and I have no clothes." She puts her finger on her lips and tries but fails to look innocent.

He's shaking his head at her, but he's smirking. "You're incorrigible."

She gives him a confused look. She doesn't know the word.

"Unfixable. Unable to be tamed," he defines.

"Ah. Good." She grins, nodding approvingly. "That is the way to be."

"Oh, Yao-Yao…" Edward sighs even as he smiles.

_I will miss this, _he knows.

As they sit there in perfect understanding, Edward realizes how soon it will slip away.

He closes his eyes, but the tears leak out anyway.

Yao-Yao doesn't hesitate. She pats him on the hand, gives a shake of the head, and insists, "Not that. Not now."

"I'm sorry," Edward replies.

"No sorry. Let it go. Try not to think and think and think."

"I always over-think everything."

"I know. This is why I laugh."

He laughs, too, then.

. … . ……. . . . .

When he wakes up the following morning, she does not.

As the medics prepare to take her from the room, he gives her lifeless hand a final squeeze.

_So long, my friend. _But then he stops in the middle of the room. He looks at the empty bed and then looks out the window to the permanent white of the sky. Down the long hill he can see the great river flowing at the base of the valley.

A smirk lassos his mouth. _Yao-Yao and her inside jokes_.

. … . ……. . . . .


	4. Ch4

a/n: 1. i don't own Twilight. Stephanie Meyer does. 2. fandomgivesback still going on! 3. slashbackslash contest still going on! 4. this be a heart-fail chappie, so put on yer sad berets and opera masks, m'beloveds. 5. ellecc rules. she beta'd.

* * *

Once upon a tiger's back, it is hard to alight.

—_Chinese Proverb_

* * *

It was the Christmas Eve before last.

He rushed in late. The concert he'd played for had run long. The family was all crowded in the living room: Emmett wearing a Santa hat, Mom and Dad in red sweaters, and Rosalie laughing as Del battled with a small ocean of wrapping paper.

It was the first Christmas that Rosalie spent with them, not bothering to "put up with" her parents' extravagant annual soirée in Boston. Her wanting to come had surprised him at first, but then he'd realized that fiancées were supposed to do such things.

Over the rest of the evening he got the usual nudges about the future: "Tick-tock, tick-tock, Edward, before she runs away," Emmett joked. "I saw some lovely bridal gowns just the other day," his mother "hinted."

At some point, his parents called it a night and headed upstairs. He and Emmett had left their chess game "to be continued" and gone looking for the girls.

They found Del asleep and curled up on Rosalie.

"Here, I got her," Emmett whispered, reaching for Del.

"Oh, one sec," Rosalie insisted, and then she had carefully slid out of the chair, stood up, and kissed Del softly, before handing her to Emmett with an almost-sad smile.

It was moments like these that left Edward in awe of his fiancée. She was so completely uninhibited in her affections with his niece that he almost didn't know how to respond to her afterwards.

What he did do was plop down on the couch and pull her against him.

"Christmas concert went okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, it was fun—just went late."

"I wish you didn't have to do those weekend and holiday gigs," she murmured, but without any accusation in her tone. She sounded sleepy, and her body was warm curled up against his.

"Rosie," Edward asked, "Do you ever wish we could just get away from it all? Live somewhere remote? Get away from the city crap? Maybe even raise a family there?"

Rosalie looked up at him, blinking blearily, "What, like elope?"

"In part, I guess, but also... I don't know, maybe something more permanent, too."

"Oh, well, our parents would be pretty upset if we eloped, right?"

Edward sighed. "You're tired. I shouldn't be bothering you with this."

"No, it's fine," she murmured into his shoulder. "We can go on a trip."

"Go to sleep, Rosalie," Edward whispered. He kissed the top of her head.

* * *

He looks for Rose everywhere. She doesn't answer her phone. For once in a lifetime, she doesn't instantly reply back on her PDA.

When he finally sees her, she's in the middle of the ballroom in a backless champagne number that's turning heads. He marches toward her. She's next to Emmett, and while Rosalie's back is turned, Emmett is watching him with curious eyes. Edward is almost there when his father's voice calls out to them from across the crowd.

Then there's the speech. Rosalie's hand is pressed across the small of his back. Everyone is clapping. But Edward's shocked eyes are following the flight of a flush-faced girl.

She flees, and Edward is trapped by the crowd.

By the eyes and eyes and more eyes.

By his family.

When it ends, he flees. Then, he's dashing about. Running and barely dodging guests in the hotel hallways. Inquiring at the front desk. Interrogating the valets and women coming out of the ladies room. He's running from ballroom to conference center to game room. Searching and failing to find a single clue.

He's about to head into the hotel bar when two men come barging through the door. One has at least ten inches on the other and is holding the shorter man by the scruff of his collar.

"You need to learn to distinguish between fire hydrants and women, asshole," the larger man mutters with an irritable eye roll. He shoves the shorter man forward. The shorter guy stumbles and manages to clunk his head against the wall.

The larger man has a hand towel thrown over his shoulder, so Edward infers he must be the bartender.

The bartender is looking at the grumbling heap of a man on the floor and frowning. He turns to Edward and asks, "Do me a favor. Make sure he's not dead? I have other inebriated imbeciles to poison, _et_ _cetera, et_ _cetera_."

Edward begins to reply—but the bartender is already knocking through the doors. Edward gives an incredulous shake of the head before squatting down to offer the fallen man a hand, which the he takes, while glaring at the door as Edward pulls him to his feet.

"Asshole!" the man yells more loudly than necessary at the door.

"You okay, man?"

He spares Edward a glance long enough to mutter, "I will be," and then it looks like he's considering charging back into the bar.

It's a bad idea. The large bartender will totally flatten him with a sweep of his backhand, and the guy next to him does not look like the type of dude to be even remotely scrappy. Edward decides to distract him for his own dignity. "Can I ask a question?"

The man nods, still glaring contemptuously at the door.

"In the bar, was there a girl with_—_?" But he's cut short.

Because Rose has rounded the corner and is tearing down the hallway, heels clicking on the marble. Her skirt is swishing from side to side as she marches forward, and her hair is splayed behind her shoulders. "Edward Cullen!" she shouts, marching up to him.

The man next to him backs away in obvious apprehension, though his eyes are sweeping up and down Rose's figure with obvious appreciation.

Edward doesn't say anything—and what is he supposed to say? _"Sorry, my fiancée, but I'm looking for this girl with whom I had a magical moment at the bookstore this afternoon"_...?

_No. That would not do._

"We—are—going—to—talk," Rosalie hisses.

Edward gives a single nod of assent, and then she's dragging him down the hall way, and he's letting himself be pulled. Then they're in the elevator, and there's the uncomfortable silence. It's the silence of being in a fight while being surrounded by people, and the tension coming off Rosalie is evident. Her pale eyes are glaring at him, and she's obviously seething with each breath of air.

He realizes what he's done after all. Their wedding date was just announced—and how did he react? He spazzed and ran out the door the minute the microphone was turned off. Naturally, Rosalie was...

"I'm fucking angry," she spits out the second they're off the elevator.

He tries to think of a response, but then she's sliding the room card into a door slot and pushing open a door.

He stands there motionless.

Rosalie stares at him with her hand on her hip. "What? Come inside. Or—are you intent on publicly humiliating me _further_?"

Edward reaches out to hold the door open. "Ladies first," he whispers. _Chivalry can't hurt right now..._

Rosalie stomps into the room. Edward closes the door behind him and then follows her. She plops herself directly onto the center of the bed. Edward takes the chair alongside.

The room seems to have excellent soundproofing because the only sound is their breathing. Rosalie looks up at him after some long seconds have passed. "You won't even sit next to me?" she asks in whisper. She gazes at him, but then breaks her gaze away, staring down at her hands and looking like she's trying to manage some thin thread of self-control.

Edward blinks. Rosalie's not just angry... she's hurt.

Now, for the first time this evening, he's looking at her and realizing how much time she must have spent preparing for this party. Her skin is glittering slightly. Her nails are pale pink, though they were a reddish color the day before. Her hair is in a perfect mess of curls, a harmony only a salon could achieve.

Here is the reason she neglected her ever-present PDA, and he didn't even notice until she forced him. It's horrible in so many ways—every other man in that ballroom surely noticed every golden curve—and yet the man who is supposedly _hers_ neglected to spare her a single admiring glance. Edward tries to feel whatever he should feel, but the only emotions he can muster are guilt and a tinge of annoyance—which isn't fair. To either of them.

He pulls himself out of the chair and lies down next to her. He gently lifts her hand from her lap and brings it to his lips. He kisses the underside of her wrist gently. She's always liked it when he does that. It used to make her shiver slightly.

It still does now.

"I didn't mean to react that way when Dad announced—I mean—I should have thought of—"

Rosalie jerks her wrist out of his hand. "What, Edward? Thought of someone besides yourself?" She crosses her arms across her chest, and then she turns to stare defiantly into his eyes. "And don't play that dithering game. You promised everyone last week that you'd cut that crap."

"It wasn't crap—I just fucking hate... You know I didn't mean to."

"Of course, you didn't, but what do you expect me to do? Lay back and take it? Hide my feelings and cry in the corner until you happen to notice? It's _you_. What if you never noticed? I've already been your fiancée for nearly five fucking years... Besides, what good is not saying anything anymore? I'm not going to do what you do with the passive aggressive bullshit. It doesn't fix anything. If something's wrong—fucking say so."

"What do you want me to say? You act like something's changed. It hasn't. It's still the old stuff. We've just never actually talked about it."

"I tried to talk to you about it."

"Oh, right. Do I ever remember. You asked me if _I fucked my dead friend_."

Rosalie closes her eyes and clenches her teeth. "Edward. You came back. I gave you time. I hadn't seen you except for brief trips for two years. We'd promised to marry each other, so—_duh_, I hadn't gotten any for two years. My vibrator is on the verge of collapse—and—then—you—wouldn't—touch—me. What was I supposed to assume? Then, you 'let it slip' that she _moonlighted as a hooker on the Canton docks_. What the fuck was I supposed to think?"

"What I said—that I was grieving my _friend_—who was over a decade older than I was."

Rosalie holds her tongue for a moment, but when she looks at him again, a wry smile is spreading across her face. "Just so you know," and here she lets loose a full-on grin, "I fully expect to get hit on well into my forties."

"Dear God," Edward groans in frustration.

"I know," she drawls as she shrugs. "I'm vain, and the bragging is a rude habit—but it's not like you don't benefit from it." Then she stretches out her bare legs one at a time, causing the thin fabric of her dress to hike up.

"I thought we were supposed to be _talking,_" Edward emphasizes, but his eyes are haplessly examining the line of her thigh. Her legs are the perfect combination of muscle and curve, and their sleek form is enough to shock him every time he sees them.

"We haven't..." She scoots closer to him and then lays her head on the side of his shoulder. "In at least three weeks." He almost thinks she's going to kiss him, but then she asks, "Why is that?"

"Rosalie—we really do need to talk." He knows he'd sound more convincing if his breathing wasn't elevated.

But she pushes him back. His head thumps against the mattress, and then she throws over a leg, and her weight is on top of him. _There._

"Spit it out, Edward."

"Well, why do you even put up with me? You deserve more, Rose."

She stares at him from above for a long second. She doesn't blink. When she speaks her voice is calm and even. "Because when your dick is actually inside of me—I like it. Because you're smart. You can be funny on occasion. Because our families are friends—and family is very important to me. Because, when you're not focused on yourself, you can be pretty great. Because," and here, she pauses, before pronouncing, "because I _care_ about you, stupid."

Edward listens to her speech. It's so very her. Forthright. Balls-out, and yet she hasn't said what they both know—what lurks in the background: they aren't in love with each other. Not anymore.

Though, Edward's not sure they ever were.

He wonders is she's really okay with that. "We're not really in love, are we?" He puts it out there.

This question doesn't rattle her.

"Edward, it's been five years of a lot of crap: law school, you being abroad and then emo, and your dad and the sale of the firm. We're not going to be lost to puppy love—but I don't think that negates what we have."

She _is _okay with it.

But he's not. The moment has arrived, and he needs to say it. "I'm not sure I—I'm not sure that we should—" His voice is already weak and tense, but she doesn't let him finish, regardless.

Her eyes go wide, and she demands, "You're not sure about _what_—exactly?"

He knows that his expression, his tone, and the way his hands are shaking are saying more than his words.

Rosalie is shaking her head—_no, no, no._

He reaches out. He wants to calm her—reassure her in some way, but instead, she attacks him. Her hand fists in the cotton of the front of his shirt and wrenches him up toward her. Her knees go wide and her hips are grinding into him. Then Edward flinches as teeth cut against his bottom lip, and tongue follows in their wake.

He pushes her back. "Rosalie—!"

"No—Edward—five fucking years—you—!" Tears threaten the corners of her eyes.

There's nothing that makes him feel like a bigger asshole than a girl crying_—_and _fuck, Rosalie never cries,_ so he's more ashamed than ever.It's all coming down. It's like they've leaped into some sort of free fall, and it's scaring the shit out of both of them, and Rosalie's the one who's supposed to be iron and steel—so to see her jaw shivering, her eyes reddening...

Instinct and desperation take over Edward. His fingers push under her ass, beneath her dress. He roughly pushes against the lace until his fingers find the edge, and then he's pulling at the fabric and shoving her off his lap and back onto the bed.

Rosalie's hair is coming out of its pins, and she's gasping as she demands, "Fucking—what do you fucking think—?"

"I don't deserve this," he groans into her neck. His whole hand is cupping and circling between her legs.

"Just shut the fuck up for one damn—!" And then his mouth covers hers, and he's mimicking the shapes traced down below with his tongue and lips against hers.

She jerks.

She tries to move away.

He holds her there, fingers and mouth making her stay.

He holds her, and he keeps pressing and tonguing and licking. Circles and thumbs. She's noiseless and still at first, but then she gives in, and she's kissing him back. She's moaning against his lips. Her fingernails dig in, vise-like on his arm and ass. He's on the tail-end of a winter cold, and his nostrils are hissing slightly through the strained intakes of air. His hands only stop their movements when she pushes them away and goes for his front button—at which point he yanks down the front of her dress.

He moves to palm the now liberated breasts, but with an angry hiss, she slaps his hand away. "You're making my job difficult," she snaps, and then she pushes out the button.

He kicks his pants off. He strips off his boxers.

Rose slides the lace off her ankle.

He pushes her dress up the rest of the way. She pushes back against the headboard.

He tries to kiss her.

She turns her head. "Fucking don't." She jerks her hips against his to make her point.

He doesn't try again. He grabs her thighs, lifts her up so that she's angled, and thrusts into her.

She tenses. Her hears her teeth grind. Her elbows are over his shoulders and her hands are pulling hard on his hair.

She's cursing as he moves. "Fuck. Fucking hell. Fuck you."

Pushing in and out.

"Fuck you," she gasps out, even as she holds him tighter.

He fucks her harder to shut her up.

It's fast and loud, and her ass is against the headboard. The back of her head is flush against the dry wall. The stock picture of a country flower garden is rocking from side to side on the wall above.

It can't be comfortable. It might even hurt.

"Fuck you," Rosalie hisses between pants.

Edward doesn't utter a reply. He responds by thrusting harder, and Rosalie's free hand slams back against the wall to buffer the force, gasping and squeezing him impossibly tighter.

They're lost in this—_whatever it is_, when he realizes that the picture above looks like it's about to fall. Edward clutches her against him and rolls them back onto the bed.

She's just begun to tense and moan in earnest when his body tenses, and the pleasure shoots through him.

He stills on top of her, and then only the sound of their breathing fills the room.

They lie there for an indeterminate amount of time.

Rosalie is the one who ends it. She pushes on his shoulder.

He rolls off of her.

He turns his head to find Rosalie not looking at him but at the ceiling. "I'm going back to the party," she states, and then she stands and walks toward the bathroom, perfect curls now in a mess and dress, rumpled.

"Rosalie, I..."

She shakes her head, but doesn't turn back to look at him. "Don't say anything. Not a word." She walks into the bathroom and closes the door.

Edward cleans himself up and gets dressed.

The shower is running when he lets the door click behind him.

He walks through the hotel hallways for a while before finding an exit sign and stepping out into the winter cold.

He walks until he's sure his lips are blue.

He is coming back inside to get his jacket from coat check when he runs into his parents.

"Edward! Look at you! Crazy boy!"

"You should stay at our house tonight." His mother is already shoving his arms through his coat sleeves.

He agrees to this, and then they're waiting for the valet to bring the car, and his dad is prattling on about the impending merger, about Edward's new role, and about how smoothly the whole process has been going. "The transition manager they sent along—a Miss Swan, lovely young woman. They couldn't have picked a better person for the job. I meant to introduce her to you tonight, but she slipped out early, but—_oh!_ That's her! Bella! Bella!"

The name registers, and Edward turns to look at the same time their car pulls up.

His brain almost fails to process the moment.

Bella.

Bella is the manager.

Bella is in front of him.

The man next to her is the bartender.

His hand is sliding off Bella's ass.

Bella looks... she looks like Rosalie did when Edward left her not an hour ago.

They stare at each other for a broken second.

Edward opens the car door before he loses whatever he'd been holding on to.

* * *

He stays at home until his parents go to bed.

Then he goes to the nearest bar.

He drinks until they kick him out.

Then he catches a cab to his studio.

He sleeps until its almost noon. He smells like shit when he wakes up, so he showers.

He catches another cab.

He knocks on Rosalie's door.

She opens it. They stare at each other.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For everything. I'm so, so sorry."

She lets him in.


	5. Ch5

disclaimer: _twilight _is the property of people with real monies. 1. this is one of those "plot" chapters, heh. 2. i read The Suicide King by Racket Ghost (the artist formerly known as Nightshade##) - its all twisty and !!!! so check it out. 3. 9 days left to enter the slash/backslash contest! 4. ellecc rules as beta queen.

* * *

Heaven is high; Earth, wide. Bitter between them flies my sorrow.  
—_Li Po_

* * *

She's motionless in the glass, suspended as if abed. The transparent case is placed on a plain, oak table in middle of the glade. The light flickers through, so that her skin seems to glow, but that can't be—_skin shouldn't glow that way_. It must be the layers of the encasing glass, for she's not breathing.

His modern mind thinks _commercial freezer _first, but then the child in him thinks, _no_—_coffin_.

He wants to wake her up.

He fingers the glass edges of the case, feeling for creases with his nails. He presses. Nothing.

He finds a rock, so heavy that his muscular legs burn when he squats to lift it, but lift it, he does. He slams it with a deafening blow onto the case. The stone shatters, but the case is unmarked, uncracked.

Still locked. Still closed.

He sweeps aside the powder and dust and finds her face again. He stares down and imagines life in that motionless pout.

He presses his lips to the glass above.

When he pulls back, her eyes are open, blinking. They smile at each other.

But then it happens.

She reaches up to touch him, but she can't. She pushes right and left, but nothing gives.

She screams—though he hears no sound. He can only stare at the white of teeth and red lash of her tongue. She scratches until her nails are bloody. She's thrashing and bruising herself, and he's on top of the case, pounding with his fists and pulling and pushing.

Nothing.

Nothing will get her out.

* * *

He wakes up panting in the dark. His neck stings. His whole body is covered in sweat, and his sheets and quilt are twisted around his thigh and underneath his left side.

The clock reads 5:59 a.m.

He lies still for a moment, taking measured breaths until his heart rate slows.

When he stands up, he stretches first thing. He rolls his neck until the stinging feels muted, and then he half-throws himself into the shower, only to jump aside when the scalding water attempts to melt off his skin. After he adjusts the tap, the temperature of the water is still against health advisory, but the rake of the burn loosens his muscles.

Then he gets dressed.

The suit is new. The shoes are not, but the polish on them is fresh. The anise-leather scent hits him as he tugs them on, and his nostrils flair as his head pangs.

Not four minutes later, he's downstairs and pushing through the glass doors with all the other desperate, groggy people.

"_Americano_—but I need at least three shots." He holds up his fingers just to make himself clear.

He hears his order being called back, and then he makes his way over to the counter to wait.

His new life has begun.

* * *

Emmett has jelly doughnut on his collar.

Or so Edward thinks.

Rosalie's the one to spot it. "Are you capable of eating without a bib?" she mutters, pulling a Tide pen out of her purse and attacking his collar.

"Del stole mine," Emmett insists with a straight face.

Rosalie glowers at him. "What substance is this, anyway?"

"Apple."

"It's _red_."

"Apples are red."

"On the _outside_. Is this that chemical-laden microwave crap? I _told you_ not to give that to her."

"But we both like it!" Emmett protests.

"Freddie _knows_ not to give that to her."

"I know. He says," and here Emmett puts his hand on his hip and imitates, "'Ah—Mr. Cullen—dat Missy Rosie gonna e'ssscizzor yer cojones if you let Delita eat dat e'store brand.'"

Edward laughs, but Rosalie looks thoughtful. "Such a good choice. He really was the perfect hire. I like him so much."

"He's fine, but I still think that Vera chick would have totally rocked the nanny costume with those hips and that—"

Emmett leaps back to avoid Rosalie's swipe.

But then Dad—_Carlisle_—strolls into the coffee nook, engaged in a rather technical conversation with—

_Bella_.

"The audit process might take at least—" Bella cuts off when she sees the three of them standing there.

Carlisle, however, doesn't miss a beat. "Bella, you're the last one to meet my son, Edward!"

They look at each other. Bella's smile is tight, and rather than extend a hand, she gives a quick wave by way of greeting.

Edward nods back. He can feel everyone's eyes on them, and he knows she's feeling them, too.

Then Bella turns to Carlisle with a smirk, her eyes seeming to determinedly fix on him. "Nepotism much?" she quips.

Carlisle laughs. "I assure you, Edward is less disruptive than Emmett."

"Right, high standards, Carlisle."

Carlisle laughs again, and Emmett immediately jumps in with a retort. "Hey, I resent that, and I'm top salesman again this month, I'll have you know, Bella Swan girl," Emmett counters back.

"I saw. I even have a pie chart that proves it."

"Oooh. _Pie_."

Bella shakes her head with wondering wide eyes at Emmett, and then turns back to Carlisle, "Our meeting is at two?" Her face, Edward realizes, looks weary. There are circles under her eyes.

Carlisle nods.

"Off to prepare." She taps the binder in her hand and takes a step toward the door.

"I'll go with you." Carlisle grabs his tea.

They both head for the door.

Emmett's head is tilted to the side, and there's a contemplative frown on his face."Aw, Bella seems sad. She normally laughs at my jokes."

"Well, she's missing her ring," Rosalie notes in exasperation.

"Oh, _really_?" Emmett's frown disappears, and then he turns to wink wickedly at Edward.

"Don't even think about it, Emmett," Rosalie warns in a clipped tone.

"Just because _you _don't like her—"

"She's _annoying_."

"Nuh-uh. What you mean is that she corrected your poor excuse for grammar on that report—and you're intimidated by other hot women."

"She's not even really that pretty."

Emmett snorts.

Edward wants to ask Rosalie, _Do you have eyes?_ But instead focuses all of his attention on the striking array of flavor options listed on the Flavia machine.

"Whatever. I have a report to write," Rosalie mutters with an extra dose of irritation in her tone, and then says, "Happy first day of work, honey," kisses Edward on the cheek, glares at Emmett, and heads down the hall.

Edward pours sugar into the coffee cup he's been holding for the past ten minutes. "What do you mean about Bella, Em? She's engaged?"

Emmett takes his gaze looks up at him curiously. "Yeah, well, at least she was. Newbie over at Kohler and Gorman. They were together for forever, from what I know." He shrugs.

Edward gives his brother what he knows must be a fake smile, unable to stop himself. He realizes that he's probably revealing too much. Emmett—despite being a verbal idiot—gets people better than almost anyone he knows. "Huh, well, I guess I'm off for round two of orientation." Edward gives his cup a final stir.

"Sexual harassment training! Those videos are hilarious! Can I come, too?"

"Emmett..." Edward groans.

* * *

He sees her almost every day, though he doesn't see her as often as he sees others. She travels at least twice a month for various projects, so there's that, but soon he realizes that Bella has a pattern. Every day at lunch, she goes downstairs to Norland's Bibliophilia. Otherwise, she's not distant, but she's not actively social, either. She doesn't make a point of joining the other young professionals who head out to post-work happy hours. She does her job—does it well—and then leaves.

He sometimes wonders if she sprouts wings and flies away.

She also has the somewhat silly tendency of walking back from lunch with a book in her hand, like she can't bear to let it go. Reading while walking is a bad idea for most people—but it's an especially bad idea for Bella, for whom an inner equilibrium does not appear to exist.

He and Bella almost never speak directly to each other, unless they're in a meeting.

One time, he is sitting in the conference room, and she walks in early with Jessica.

Jessica plops down next to Edward, being sure to make herself known, and with no mind for the concept of professional space, reaches out and lifts his book cover, reading the title aloud, "_Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. _Cool. Is that Feng Shui or that um, Tao stuff?" she asks, leaning rather close to him.

"No, Zen is Buddhism. Daoism is different. Feng Shui is geomancy, only loosely related to aspects of Daoism." As he speaks, Edward shrinks back from her ever so slightly. Jessica's perfume smells like grape cough syrup.

Bella, who has been focused on her notes, doesn't glance up but quotes, "'You'd be surprised how many people violate this simple principle every day of their lives and try to fit square pegs into round holes, ignoring the clear reality that Things Are As They Are.'"

Jessica put her hand on her hip. "Bella, you are such a know-it-all."

"'The wise are not learned; the learned are not wise,'" Bella quips back.

Edward laughs. He ignores Jessica. "_The Tao of Pooh_?" he asks Bella.

She looks up at him, pleased. "Never a finer text." She smiles.

He smiles back.

_She's so unbelievably gorgeous—and funny—and—_

He's been staring for too long. It's too long because Bella's smile freezes, and Edward forgets whatever natural response he was supposed to have made.

* * *

He's waiting for the elevator the next day with Rosalie. She's ranting on about Carlisle's tendency to always drive a Mercedes.

"I told him I could advise him on custom-ordering something to his specifications or at least on getting a model with a bit more RPM—but he doesn't listen to a word of my advice, and there's no way to argue with him either. Your dad is the nicest, _stubborn_ person I've met in my—"

The door opens, and Bella, book in hand, is coming out. She glances up at the same time that she takes a step.

She sees Edward.

The result is disastrous.

The tip of her shoe catches on the crack between the elevator and the floor.

She falls down with a splat.

Edward is paralyzed with indecision, palms up with fingers spread wide but arms braced back at his sides.

_If he had caught her, she would have felt so..._

_What we would he have done?_

Emmett, from behind, is the one who is pulling Bella up. "No more midday margaritas," he's joking.

Rosalie is holding out a Tide pen while clinically examining Bella's dress for any needy spots.

Bella, fire-engine red in the face, is mumbling something like, "Happens all the time. Thanks for helping." She seems to be looking everywhere but at Edward.

But then she does look.

She looks, and then she runs.

But that look.

They're still pounding on the glass. Still.


	6. Ch6

_1. disclaimer: _Any Twilight characters that may appear in this story belong to Stephenie Meyer. The remainder is my original work. No reproduction or other use is allowed with out my written permission. So, word out.

**2. Only One chapter left (and prolly an epilogue - I want to write about Pookie, again. Seriously.)! 3. Slash/Backslash contest has some super fabulous one-shots. Final date for submission is fast approaching! 4. Keep your eye out for more PSVP updates from me in the next week or so (if you're reading my New Moon parody) because I'm going to be around family... and family requires stress release in the form of comedic writing. 5. ElleCC beta'd. She's amazing.**

**

* * *

**

* * *

Be not ashamed of mistakes and thus make them crimes.  
—_Confucius_

* * *

Low-cut mountains.

The dewy green slopes of a valley.

There's a gap in the hill where the rocks seem to pile up, and he sees the dip of the land and hears the trickle of water, and he's certain a stream must be pushing through those rocks, though he can't see from here. He's of half a mind to go and investigate when he hears the creak of a floorboard behind him.

He feels warm arms wrap firmly about his waist. The hands move upward, slinking over his chest and sliding up the sides of his neck and under his jaw until they cover his eyes.

He lets them rest there for a minute. Then he spins on her.

Her brown eyes stare up at him, intense. She's pale, but the dress she wears is paler. The fabric is soft as his hand steadies her, but not as soft as the skin and fine hairs on her arm. His fingers are moving up the slim curve of her bicep when her other hand snatches his hand away. She grips his hand tightly, and she pulls, leading him off the porch and down the hill.

They're headed toward the dip in the rocks. The sound of rushing water.

They reach the edge and they're standing there, and the water below is clear, but there are rocks littering the bed of the stream. Some look sharp.

She presses against him. She grabs both of his sleeves and pulls his arms around her. Her lips move towards his, and they whisper, "Jump in."

"It's cold," he whispers back, but all he can think about is how her breath feels so _warm_.

She pulls away. Her shoulders roll back. "Then we'll fall in anyway," she laughs-whispers, and her hands push on his chest, and he stumbles back.

His feet try to stop the slide, but—

* * *

Edward awakes hard and panting. His hands are perpendicular on his sides, spread out like wings, and his head is pressed hard into the mattress.

He has to make himself relax—which means he fumbles to open the drawer in his nightstand. His fingers find the bottle, and he's squeezing it into his palm and pulling himself out of his boxers. He half-groans when he finally coats himself. The sensation is wet and cold at first but then warms with the repeated tugs.

Edward doesn't even try to pretend at these times.

He imagines Bella bent over the conference table in the office. Her skirt has a way of bunching at her hips when she leans forward like that.

He recalls the tickle of her breath on his face in the bookstore. He takes this memory further and pretends he's memorized the perfect texture of her wet mouth.

He gives in and make-believes his dream was truth: that her dress is curled and buoyant in the stream's shifting current so that he can grab her hips through the chill of the water and pull her crystal-blue flesh against his own. She's shivering, but her mouth is steam when his lips push it open. Her hair is dripping, and the drops hanging off her eyelashes catch the sunlight.

They touch, and they move. They float and twist about each other like snakes in the current. Fabric floats downstream, and then her stripped skin is warming pockets of water against his chest. The way he can move her against him in the water: weightless and bent like a leaf of grass...

Edward groans as the tension shoots through him, his hand thrusting faster. He groans all the way through the pulsing rush.

When his eyes are no longer so hazy, he rolls away from the damp on the sheets. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and reaches to click on the bedside lamp. As his eyes adjust, Edward finds himself staring at the pictures on his nightstand.

The largest picture: his parents, Emmett, Del, him, and _Rosalie_.

He falls back down onto the sheets... wishing dreams were permanent.

* * *

The thing about it is...

It's okay.

It's all _okay_.

As always, he has over-thought things. His job isn't the end of the world. He likes parts of it. He likes the teamwork. He likes the product development and brainstorming, and the fact that he gets to work on international projects, speaking to people around the world. He likes his coworkers and their odd personalities. He takes comfort in the number of digits that appear with each direct deposit.

He realized the day before last what his real problem is. That it's not the _work_ he resents. The problem is that even though the work is good, it's more than he deserves. He isn't worthy of it, because he knows that it's the type of work that someone else—someone who probably deserves and wants it more—would appreciate.

He's contemplating guilt when Rosalie knocks on his office door.

"I'm craving an overpriced steak salad, preferably with fancy lettuce and bacon," she announces, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk.

"Is that your way of asking for lunch at that French restaurant?"

She beams back at him. "I did dress accordingly."

He notes that she's wearing a scarf. This must have something to do with it?

"What time?"

"I'll come and get you," she promises, already standing and heading for the door.

After she leaves, Edward frowns.

Rosalie's always given him an exact time before.

* * *

Lunch begins with Edward gaping and trying not to stare.

Because Bella's there—_with his brother._

He's only beginning to process the situation, when "Jacob" (who is definitely not the bartender) shows himself, curses, and flashes a returned engagement ring at Bella so that she bursts into tears and agrees to "talk with him" again.

Edward wants to kick "Jacob" for being manipulative, and he wants to give Bella a stern talking to for being a sucker, because it's obvious to _anyone_ that the fool is trying to woo her back. Then again, Edward would be even madder at Jacob—and he is mad—except that he realizes that he's the source of the guy's pain and Bella's current misery.

Oh, and it's also obvious that Rosalie's on the warpath.

When Emmett asks them to join him and Bella, Edward's torn between wanting to push Rosalie out the front door and wanting to be as close to Bella as possible. Neither of which is good, but Rosalie accepts Emmett's offer before Edward can think of what to do, and then Edward's thigh is two inches from Bella's, and Bella is sipping hard liquor and looking shattered, so she's not all that observant. Meanwhile, Rosalie keeps hissing comments under her breath at Emmett like, "_What would your daughter think of you going out with random women?_"

Comments that Emmett is ignoring by talking over her with comments like, "Edward, don't French restaurants have the best cheese EVER?"

Edward doesn't actually get to make any educated commentary on the fine cheeses available because Rosalie slams down her menu. "You know, Edward, now I wished we'd gone for _Italian_—the atmosphere here calls for some _pasta putanesca._"

Bella is staring at the bubbles in her glass and seems totally unaffected by the ire being directed her way.

Emmett counters her in a voice that's _pissed_—and Emmett rarely gets mad. "I don't know, Rosie, _foie gras_ is on the menu. Seems like that's more your style." He gets a look in his eyes, a look that Edward knows can't be good, and then Emmett holds up his hand shaped like it's a goose beak. "Here little goosey—would you like to have some corn. Tastes good. Mmmm. Wants some more? Wait! You don't _want _the corn? You don't _liiiike _it? Well, too _fucking _bad, little goosey! Because you are going to open up _wide_, and you—are—going—to—eat—the—fucking—corn, you UGLY FUCKING DUCKLING!" At which point Emmett is furiously mimicking the force-feeding of his left thumb (corn) into his goose (hand).

At Edward's side, Bella starts chuckling. It seems she's finally paying attention.

Rosalie, irate, spits out, "It never fails. You are so unbelievably juvenile, Emmett!"

Emmett feigns being affronted. "Juvenility is nothing when compared to the ferocious force-feeding of feathered friends!" He shakes his fist in the air in rebellion.

Edward considers that the gesture looks quite French.

"'Juvenility' is not a word," Rosalie snaps back.

"But that's not to say it shouldn't be—_and_ it's not _nice _to eat other creatures' livers. Livers are _vital_ organs—speaking of which," Emmett directs his concern across the table, "you might wanna slow down there, Bella..."

Bella shrugs. She has the cognac in one hand and her phone in the other and is pressing buttons. She doesn't seem to notice Emmett's caution. So, when his next question fails to get her complete attention, Emmett does what he does: snatches her phone away and argues with Bella about her dog.

Edward is actually enjoying the relief in the tension until Rosalie speaks. Her voice is calm when she says, "So, spit it out, Bella, why'd you dump that guy?"

Calm, furious Rosalie is the worst. Edward's having memories of the day he sold the Vanquish, and how after her screaming and yelling, Rosalie'd said everything was fine, but it wasn't fine...

Bella's reply of, "I'd rather not talk about it," does little to put Rose off.

"Oh, don't tease us, Bella. He said you'd known each other for ten years." When Bella doesn't answer, Rosalie presses on, "Is it because of that guy from the engagement party a few months back? I heard about that." She winks at Bella.

It's in that moment that the great sinking feeling hits Edward in the chest.

Rosalie didn't schedule this lunch—and she normally puts their lunches in his Outlook calendar—and she agreed to join Emmett and Bella's table. Rosalie _planned _this—and even if she doesn't know for a fact that Edward has feelings for... She _suspects_. He's been too obvious, and now Rosalie's not taking it out on him—_she's going after Bella_.

Edward half wants to confess himself right there. He wants to apologize to Rosalie. Apologize to Bella. Apologize to Emmett for perpetuating the stereotype that all men are fuckwads.

Edward feels a burst of hope when Emmett tries to change the subject, but it doesn't work.

Rosalie's acting like a shark that smells blood in the water. "Bella, we have to head out for a happy hour tomorrow after work, wouldn't that be nice?"

He feels like taking Bella into his arms, caging her there, and running her out of the restaurant, away from his feral fiancée and her long-taloned machinations. But he doesn't do that. Instead, he grabs Bella's thigh, basically feeling her up. He withdraws it immediately, wanting to die as his fingers slide off the silk of her skin, but he's already ruined everything, and Bella's said, "yes," to meeting Rosalie.

Victorious, Rosalie finally seems to calm, at least enough to bicker only with Emmett. Edward and Bella are mostly silent, except for the occasional glib answer.

Beneath the table, Edward's fist is still sweaty and tingling.

It's when they're leaving that he sees Bella gulp down the rest of the cognac. She sways slightly after she sets down the glass, but then she takes a few steps before Edward knows it's going to happen.

He leaps forward. He catches her just as she starts to fall backwards.

He caught her.

He's holding her.

But it doesn't matter because she gives him a final bewildered look and then passes out.

"_My God_—this is why sane people don't drink during the work day." Rosalie crosses her arms.

"Crap," Emmett mutters. "I have that Denali meeting. I can't take her home. Edward?"

Edward expects Rosalie to throw a fit, but instead she instructs, "Call Angela. She has her home address. Grab the key out of her purse. It'll be fine. I'll explain to Carlisle." She pats his arm.

They leave for the office.

Edward, holding Bella tight against him, takes her home.

* * *

As he's exiting the taxi, the cabbie is giving him extremely suspicious looks. Then again—he is carrying a beautiful, young woman over his shoulder while rifling through her purse for her keys.

He manages to get her inside though and gently lays her on the couch. Getting her out of her coat is quite the ordeal since Edward has to be both a gentleman and a gymnast in order to get her arms out of her coat sleeves without giving her either whiplash or a dislocated shoulder. It's with a sigh of relief that he's finally able to slip off her shoes, one at a time, and brush damp strands off the sides of her brow.

Then he can just look at her.

It's peaceful, looking at her. Sketching the details of her face with his eyes. Her skin, flushed as it is, seems to have a magnetic pull on his fingertips, and he has to jerk his hand away as he finds his thumb skirting her cheek—again.

He makes himself stand. Bella will probably want water when she wakes up. He explores her kitchen. It's simple without many ornaments, but it's also obvious that she uses it. There's a coffee mug in the sink waiting to be washed. The spice rack is full, the labels water-stained and faded from frequent use. He finds a glass and fills it with water, only to think she'll probably want ibuprofen or something in addition to the water.

He goes looking for her bathroom.

But finds her bedroom instead. Unlike the order of the rest of the apartment, the heap in the center of the bedroom is something to behold. Edward has no inclination to go in at first—snooping in girls' bedrooms is creepy shit—but there's a white, medicine-like bottle near the back of the mess.

As he stoops to pick up the bottle of Advil, another object catches his eye. A book. There are lots of books in the pile, but there's only one book that could make his heart stop like it does. _Sense & Sensibility_. He drops the Advil bottle and then has to pick it up again.

She still has it.

She's had it all this time.

He sets the book on her desk and opens it up, flipping through the pages. It has the old book smell, and he grips the binding, holding it to his nose and breathing in the scent.

Then he sets the book down and decides he needs a drink, too.

He's humming to himself in the kitchen as he's searching for something to imbibe when he hears the creak of the couch.

He rounds the corner. Bella is sitting up, staring at him with a dropped jaw. He moves toward her, plan in mind: give her water, Advil, and then get the fuck out.

Instead he says the worst thing he ever could, "Are you all right?" which, as soon as he says, he wants to slap himself and take it back, because there's nothing to make them pretend the moment in the bookstore didn't happen. It happened, and Bella acted, gave up her fiancée, but what did Edward do? He failed. And yet, he can't focus on that right now, because Bella is staring at him blankly, looking scared and sick, and he's only being a loser and making it worse. He tries to explain. "You passed out."

She blinks, then nods. "Oh, the double shot. I shouldn't have drunk that."

Between his brother ordering it for her, Rosalie attacking her, and Jacob... Edward tries to reassure her. "Well, I'm sure the stress of being accosted in the middle of the restaurant didn't help."

She shakes her head. "I deserve much worse from Jacob."

"No, Bella, you don't." _Not from anyone_.

"Oh, but I do. I never really even explained…"

And there it is. He's hurt her. "Bella, I…"

"Don't say anything, Edward."

He thinks of a thousand things to say. To explain everything. To tell her the story of his life. But then, he stops himself, because when it comes down to it, there's only one thing he can say, "I'm sorry," he whispers.

She stares back at him for a minute, her face tense and her eyes flickering ever so slightly with changing emotions—and then she pulls the cover over her head.

"Bella?" he calls, wanting to know how to fix this. He can hear the sniffles from beneath the blanket and he knows he's made her cry. "Please don't hide, Bella."

He's made things worse. He's made her worse. She hasn't moved on because of him—and even though he doesn't want her to—she's agreed to meet Jacob. She's taking the steps. She can finally be with someone who loves her and not some confused chump with an overbearing family and a penchant for fairytales.

And yet he needs to say goodbye.

He peels the cover back. He touches her face one last time, brushing the tears aside, and then, because he can't stop himself, he presses his lips to her forehead. He doesn't want to let go. He feels like everything in this moment is asking him to stay—but he can't. He's been selfish enough.

He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls back, standing and facing the door.

He sends his best wishes. "I hope you have a nice evening with Jacob."

He heads for the door. He does not look back.

She does not say goodbye.

* * *

He thinks about taking a cab, but instead he chooses to walk the many blocks across town. The numbing cold and anonymous bustle of the tall city help in their subtle ways.

By the time he reaches his building, it's dark, and when he finally clicks open the door, he has visitors. Emmett is sprawled across his couch with Del curled up against him. Some strange Cartoon Network show is playing.

Edward smiles wearily as he hangs up his coat. "Uh, hello? I'd tell you to make yourselves comfortable, but it seems you've already done so..."

"Whatever. You have the bigger cable package," Emmett replies.

Del, breaking her attention from the screen, smiles up at him and says "Hi, Uncle Eddie! Where's Rosie?"

"Hey, Del." He smiles affectionately at her. "Rosalie is at her apartment."

"Oh," Del accepts with a tiny pout and then proceeds to return to her show.

Emmett warns in a loud whisper, "Unless you come with blond hair and breasts, do not—and I repeat—DO NOT interrupt _Ed, Edd n Eddy_ without risk of early death." Then he stands up, carefully extricating himself from his TV-awed daughter before motioning for Edward to follow him into the kitchen.

Edward follows.

Emmett is leaning up against the counter, lips pursed to the side. "So..." he says meaningfully, "this _afternoon_."

"Uh, Bella's okay?" Edward offers.

"No—no, she's not," Emmett corrects him.

Edward doesn't say anything, because frankly, it's none of his brother's business. He reaches into the fridge to pull out two beers.

"Rosalie isn't okay, either."

Edward freezes, this time because there's more than accusation in his brother's tone. Emmett sounds the same way he did when he told Edward that their dog died when Edward was ten. Emmett sounds like he did when he had to tell his parents that he got a girl pregnant and that he was going to be a father. Emmett isn't just being accusing—he _knows_.

Edward turns his head slowly to look back at him.

"Thought so," Emmett mutters.

"Fine," Edward growls, rounding on his brother. "Right, I'm fucking everything up—as usual. I keep thinking I'm going to fix things—but I'm not—I know that. I just…"

Emmett stares at him for a moment, and then snatches the beer from his hand. "Yes, but that's okay."

"That's _okay_?"

"Yeah. Because _for once_ you're going to be honest."

Edward pops the cap of his beer with a jerk of the bottle opener.

Emmett does the same.

"Fine, then," Edward concedes.

Emmett nods and then takes a sip from his bottle. "Now talk, you moron. Did you sleep with Bella?"

Edward's shoulders drop as he stares down at his bottle. "No, it's not like that."

"Do tell. What's it _like _then?"

"Bella's more of a... I don't even really know Bella—not really, but then the bigger matter is that I... God, why the fuck am I talking to you about this? Well, fuck, I tried to end things with Rose after Dad's speech at the Christmas party, but..."

Emmett finished his sentence for him, "But she took you back the next day, I know."

His brother's voice is low and gravelly, and Edward glances up at him in confusion. "How do you know?"

Emmett sucks in his bottom lip, and his face looks rather serious until he smirks and explains, "Rose and Del have girl talk. It's loud and easily overhead."

"Jesus! Why do I talk to you?"

"Shh, bro. Inside voices. You interfere with the _show_, and we're—" Emmett puts his hand up to his throat and draws it in a horizontal line across, and then he whispers, "You talk to me because you haven't talked to anyone about this."

"Which, come to think, maybe I had a good reason not talking to—"

"No. No. No. You don't talk to anyone because everyone in the family is in love with Rosalie except for you—and you're afraid that everyone's going to hate you if you don't walk down the aisle with her."

Edward sets down his beer. "Well, I suppose there's that."

Emmett gives him a slow nod. "Honestly, man, I think the only way that you'll piss off the family is if you continue to be a shit about it. Rosalie, if you're straight with her, isn't an emo queen like you."

"Uh, no—she's not an emo queen. She's an ice princess, instead."

"Okay, fine then. I never said it was going to be _easy_, but..." Emmett trails off, appearing earnestly interested in Edward's tile, before asking, "So, what's the deal with Bella? You two act like castrated rabbits in each other's presence—it's rather disturbing, actually."

Edward ignores the jibe. "I don't know. Bella and I just had an instant connection—almost like how I knew Yao-Yao and I would be friends after the first laugh—like I don't have to try to understand her or her, me—it's just easy, whereas with Rosalie, communicating can be a trial—but with Bella... well, _now_ it's become a mess because I'm engaged, and she... well, I don't know what she's thinking."

"How romantic!" Emmett exclaims in a squeaky voice. "Now if only you hadn't promised your penis to another woman—well, then, true love would be—"

"Shut the fuck up."

Emmett frowns at him before lowering his voice. "Five-and-a-half-year-old down the hall. Learns words not good for the dinner table annoyingly quick—and even more quickly if you interrupt her show."

"I'm beginning to think Del's obsession with _Ed, Eddy and Edward_ or whatever is—"

"—_Ed, Edd n Eddy_ —" Emmett corrects with his index finger held up.

"—is a bit of an unhealthy obsession."

"I'm not going to disagree with you—_however_—back to our 'boy talk,' you need to be straight with Rosie, man—because, has it not occurred to you that if you're going to get married, it's perhaps a bad thing to be falling in love with other people?"

Edward gives his brother a level stare.

"Look, what are you afraid of?" Emmett asks.

Edward closes his eyes and tries to give a solid answer, but he all he can come up is, "I don't know."

"The worst shit that can happen is that you're not invited to a few Sunday dinners and that maybe Rosie tries to dump a cup of coffee down your pants at work. Maybe you get up the nerve to ask Bella out, but she doesn't hear you because she's reading _The Grapes of Wrath_ that day beneath her desk and only pretends to hear you. Seriously, Edward, it may suck—but not manning up is going to suck a lot more. You need to quit over-thinking shit."

Edward gives a low chuckle.

"What?"

He smiles up. "I'm a big spaz, aren't I?"

"The worst." Emmett smiles back.

At that moment, a small figure peeks into the room.

"Hey, what's up, baby-girl?" Emmett asks.

Del looks at them with knitted eyebrows, before saying, "pizza," in a soft voice. It is a demand.

Emmett turns with hand on his hip, looking at Edward expectantly.

"There's Korean, Ethiopian, and _crappy_ pizza available for delivery in ten minutes," Edward lists out.

"Still want the pizza?" Emmett questions Del.

Del shakes her head, negative. "Ethiopian," she pronounces in clipped syllables.

"That's my girl, a proper New York pizza snob," Emmett praises. "You want lamb?"

Another nod.

"And Edward, would you like a _backbone_—I mean, more over-done sour brooding—I mean, sour bread?"

"Give me the phone, ass—"

"—aspirin, too. Right?" Emmett's eyes are threatening.

Del looks concerned about her father.

Edward dials the number.

* * *

When the cartons of Ethiopian arrive, Del crawls into Edward's lap to eat. She ends up getting as much of her dinner into her mouth as on Edward's lap, but he doesn't care because she's giggling and talking about her show, and Edward gets bonus "uncle points" because he has the same name.

At some point, Del's eyes start to flutter as they fight hard to stay open, but eventually her attempts to stay awake fail, and her soft snores fill Edward's kitchen.

"Looks like it's time to head out," Emmett whispers. He grabs Del's coat and hat, and Edward holds her steady while they get her bundled to brave the winter weather outside.

Emmett is tugging on her mittens when Edward whispers, "I'm going to talk to Rosalie—_tomorrow_."

Emmett stops what he's doing and looks at Edward. "Uh, can you wait until Friday?"

Edward doesn't bother to hide his shock. "Why?" he demands.

Emmett puts Del over his shoulder and says, "I just want to figure something out. Give me a day?"

"But Bella and Rosalie are meeting tomorrow..."

"One day, okay?"

Despite his confusion, Edward nods, and then he walks them to the door.


	7. Ch7

**A/N: 1. Disclaimer. These characters are not my own. Recognizable stuff belong to Stephenie Meyer and associated publishers. 2. Last chapter. Sad face. 3. Uh, yeah... y'all pretty know what is going on here if you've read Sin & Incivility. But if you have not, I won't spoil yer fun. 4. Kisses and hugs to all my lovely readers. 5. Thanks a bjillion to ElleCC for being wonder beta. :-)**

* * *

Love is of all passions, the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses.  
—_Lao Tzu_

* * *

Accept that you might drown.

Don't wish for an extended paddle.  
Don't hope for low hanging branches.  
Do not want after midriver isles.

Float.

Churn with eddies. Dive with the tides.

And when you wake upon a beach, mourn not the burn in your lungs or the scrapes across your ankles.

Smile for the warmth of the sand.

Kiss the air.

* * *

It's late Friday morning. He's just walked out of meeting when he almost walks into her.

Rosalie.

She's wearing a suit, but she looks frazzled. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her face looks clean. She's not wearing any make-up. "I need to talk to you, now," she insists. "Please?"

He feels a touch of apprehension, but he assents and follows her into her office anyway.

Instead of going behind her desk, she sits down at the table by the window. "I went drinking with Bella last night," she says, mostly to the wall.

Edward knows this, of course. He spent most of yesterday worrying about the event. He would have tried to put a stop to it, except that Emmett told him to, "butt the fuck out." Edward had let it be, but now he has to face the consequences of whatever happened, so he replies with an innocent, "Oh?"

"I like her," Rosalie murmurs, but then her lips purse, and she says, "I will say she is weird. Funny, too, but like weirdly funny, and she has no alcohol tolerance at all." Rosalie snickers softly at the last bit, her eyes flitting to the ceiling as she smiles.

Of all the possible results of Bella and Rosalie's "meeting," this was not the result the Edward has expected.

He's still trying to rationalize Rosalie liking Bella—and more importantly, what exactly came to pass with Bella having "a low alcohol tolerance," when Rosalie leans back and states, "She likes you."

Edward keeps his voice even. "I like her." That much, at least, is true—as for the rest...

"I figured as much."

Again, not at all what he expected her to say. "Rosalie... what exactly did you and Bella talk about?"

She doesn't say anything at first, but merely slides her hand forward.

He doesn't understand the gesture at first, but then he looks down and he sees that Rosalie's hand is bare.

She's not wearing her ring.

"No, I'm not," she responds, and he realizes he spoke aloud.

With hands clenching the table she breathes out, "We're not in love. We're not getting married."

Edward is confused. Something is wrong, he's sure. He's supposed to be the one to get up the courage to say this to her. Rosalie is the one who's supposed to be threatening his balls with scalding coffee. This not having happened, he sits there for a moment in mental disarray, but then he realizes that Rosalie is shaking, and her knuckles are turning white from gripping the table, so he reaches his hand out, reassuring her, "That's actually—"

But she lets go and holds up a hand, blocking him. "Also, I need to say this." She takes a gulp of air. "I'm pretty sure I'm in love with your brother—and Del—I love them both—but um, in this situation, the brother part is more relevant...?"

Edward blinks. He closes his eyes, and he's trying to rationalize everything: _what the hell Emmett was really saying to him the night before last, and what Rosalie has been playing at all this time, especially with Del being in the middle of it, and how the fuck Bella fits into everything. _

But then he stops. He stops and realizes he doesn't care. Well, or even if he does care, it doesn't matter, not enough to put any more thought into it. He wants this to end. Rosalie wants this to end. It's the end of their story. _El fin._ Over.

Edward takes a breath and let's it all go.

Somehow this is hilarious.

He doesn't understand why it is, but the fact that he's sitting here, and that Rosalie has just dumped him for his dumbass, older brother hits him in the stomach and bubbles up through his chest. He doesn't know why, but for some reason it is the best and funniest thing ever, because it only took _five fucking years_, and thus, he's laughing. He's laughing with huge, ear-splitting laughs, his eyes tearing from the force of emotion as he squeezes the rails of his chair and bends forward as he shakes with the crazed laughter.

He's still laughing, when he recalls that Rosalie is sitting across from him, chuckling softly along with him but wringing her hands with a rather concerned look on her face.

He starts nodding and gasping out, "It's okay," between breaths of air, attempting to convey that this is not a mental breakdown.

Rosalie takes this as a clue to continue, "And, um, Bella actually more than likes you. I think she's pretty hung up on you, actually. She's not getting back together with that Jacob guy."

"Oh," he gasps out, nodding to show her that he's actually hearing her, though he knows he's still smiling and taking long breaths of air.

Rosalie shrugs. "Yeah, it's okay. You don't actually have to spill your shit to me now that we're exes. That would be weird, but I decided to tell you anyway, because..." She looks up at him with an earnest expression. "Because even if we make no sense as a couple, I do care about you—a lot—and even if you drive a Volvo..."

Edward laughs. "I feel the same..." Then he furrows his brow over the jab at his vehicle. "Well, even if you insult my car, I suppose."

Then, Rosalie laughs along with him.

Then they're just sitting there, both feeling relieved and weightless from the freedom and unexpected honesty.

"You have a meeting in five, don't you?" Rosalie asks.

"Yeah, with Aro and Felix."

"I'll walk you," she offers with another smile, and then she stands up. He does the same, and they both head for the door.

They're walking down the hall when Rosalie tilts her head to the side, and asks, "So... is there a certain amount of time that we need before we date other, er, specific people."

Edward looks ahead and sees that they're on the hall where Emmett's office is. From where they stand, he can see Emmett standing in his office doorway, and Rosalie's secretary, Jessica, standing opposite him. Jessica is leaning forward, her cleavage obviously bent in Emmett's direction as she speaks with him.

The entire lunch fiasco from two days before suddenly makes perfect sense. Edward gives a short laugh. "Uh, I don't think so?"

Rosalie turns and gives him a severe look. "So, if I jump your brother, you are okay with that?" she clarifies.

Edward thinks about it for a second. All he can feel is the euphoria in this moment. Jealousy isn't present, so he admits, "Remarkably, yes. Eh, be my guest?" He gestures ahead.

Rosalie gives him the most radiant smile he's seen on her in years, and then she strides down the hallway. Edward watches as Rosalie makes her way to the pair, mutters a quick, "Excuse me," to Jessica. Then, to Emmett she says, "I changed my mind," and before he can respond, she steps forward and pushes him back into his office door with a _smack_. The sound makes the entire hallway stop and jerk their heads to see. Jessica is looking back and forth in horror from the couple in front of her to Edward, and Emmett's eyes look like they're about to pop out his head. Meanwhile, Rosalie doesn't waste time. She grabs Emmett's by the jaw and yanks his face towards hers, locking him in a kiss.

There's the split second where Emmett and Edward's eyes meet, and Emmett looks terrified, but Edward... Edward smiles and shrugs. Emmett gives a bewildered nod back, and then he pulls Rosalie out of the hall and throws his office door shut behind them.

Then, the only sound that can be heard in the hallway is Edward.

Edward laughing.

* * *

Edward feels like a stalker, but when he hears her voice passing down the hallway, he wants to leap out of his skin and chase after the fading tone.

He can't, though. He's in a _meeting_. Although, the men in front of him are just self-important moving mouths, a blur of clicking teeth and animal-noises preventing him from chasing down the soft tones that are consuming his attention.

Edward's meeting lasts three fucking hours. By the time it ends, Edward is smiling and nodding and making a final yet glib show of thanks. Then he's out the door.

He's out the door and down the hall and in the elevator and going down _7, 6, 5, 4,_ and then striding out onto floor three.

He's writing his soliloquy with each step. _She's fucking perfect and beautiful and beautiful and adorable and beautiful, and he loves how she's funny but never needs to feel like the center of attention__—__how she seems to live in a different world and yet seems to occupy his dreams and how he's memorized the shape of her mouth because he's analyzed it every second he's thought no one's looking__—__and sometimes, even when they have been looking__—__and how she seems to have read everything__—__and how he doesn't know what it means that they seem to understand each other perfectly and naturally even though they barely know each other, but how in a way he feels like he already knew her the day he met her, and how she's beautiful and... and... _And then his half-baked internal speech writing is over, because he's at her office door, and it's cracked, and he almost doesn't push it open because it seems mostly dark inside, but then he does, and there she is.

She's sitting on the edge of her desk with her back to him, and her office is mostly dark except for a dull lamp, but what is bright is the city outside, so that her dark silhouette is framed by a halo of white and blue from the city lights, and he almost imagines it's the glow of the moon, because the milky effect it has on her pale skin makes him freeze in his tracks.

He pans the idea of any speech. His ability to speak is not to be trusted.

He almost expects her to turn around, but she doesn't, so he moves toward her.

When he's close enough, he can see that she's shivering.

She knows it's him.

For some reason, this makes sense. As everything seems to with her. It makes sense to touch her shoulder. When she gasps, it makes sense to pull her back and into his chest. To clutch her close.

He can feel the catch at the end of her breaths.

When her head sways and starts to bend back, he leans down. His lips fall forward, and then he finds her neck. It smells like flowers and salt, and the effect on him is maddening, and his hands move up to find the shape of her jaw, and then he nudges her face up—because he wants to see her. He wants to know. He wants to look into her eyes and know that this is what she wants.

Her eyes meet his.

They show no surprise, but like his own, they're questioning. They're asking questions that have been left unanswered since they met, and they almost make Edward almost wants to scream. He wants to drop to his knees and promise her "never again" and declare himself free of all obligations except the one that he owes to her in this moment.

He realizes that he's going on a mental tangent again, so he stops.

He kisses her.

He kisses her, and he groans into the kiss, because the energy of wanting to scream is being melted into the fact that he's finally kissing her—Bella—that her mouth is the one that is taking his in, and that the kiss is fluid and guilty and is making up for lost kiss after lost kiss, and because there's no talking, no soliloquizing—there's just silence and acceptance—and no questions asked because whatever needs to be said is being laid out on the table right here and now, and the thought makes him smile, but then he realizes that she's smiling, too—which makes him smile more, and he wants to laugh, because he's so happy that he half expects it to come crashing down at any moment, but then he realizes that it's not going to. This is real.

So he pulls back. He touches her face. The pads of his fingers brush just under her jaw as his thumbs sweep across her cheeks and her brows and lips.

She's just _beautiful and beautiful and beautiful._

"Bella, Bella, Bella," he says her name while he thinks it.

Her eyes are hooded but bright, and she's still watching him with a smile, but then her lips part, and that distracts him. Her mouth is open, and the way light and shadow is playing off of the curve of her lips calls for more touching, so he traces the soft, inner ridges of her lips with his nails and finger pads, making sure to memorize with touch like he's memorized with eyes. It must tickle, because she smiles wider, and his fingers are scraping across her teeth until he realizes he's going to obsessive levels, so it's with his thumb that he pulls her mouth back to his, and realizes it's a bit of an odd thing to do, but Bella mouth comes back to his like it's a demand, and then there is only the pure sensation of her mouth against his again—of teeth dragging with pressure—of her lips being water against his but rough like rolling rapids, and their noses are brushing, and there's their mutual breathing filling his mind as much as how her body feels in his hands. Her hip bone under his thumb. His palm pressing against the flat of her back.

She breaks her lips from his with a gasp.

The disconnection shocks him, but then her fingers are pulling at his neck, sorting out the fabric of his tie.

He can only stare, half-lost to the disbelief that she could possibly be willing to give him more. That she could want him more. But it's clear in her eyes, in the way she's been kissing him, in the desperate way she's pulling out the loops: she wants more.

He wants to give her everything. His hands slide under her to lift her up. He moves them to her desk chair, and he sets her down, and then he's kneeling between her legs. His tie slides onto the floor, and he wants to reciprocate, so he undoes her top button. He pushes it out, and there's skin—more skin—pale and moon-glowing and hinting at even more skin, and fingers aren't enough so he kisses the spot too, but then a kiss alone isn't enough so he licks the spot, tasting _Bella_ and soap. When he pulls back, Bella reacts with fevered nodding and goes after his button, and then they're going back and forth with the kissing and licking and undoing buttons—each unloosing of plastic circle from fabric revealing more and more—and the shadows through the horizontal line created by her open shirt are wreaking havoc on his mind—and he's painfully hard—and he's nipping and licking as every new patch of skin is revealed, and every part of him has to be held back from just grabbing the fabric and shredding, but that would be a bad idea—since this is an office and not a bedroom—but then he's finished with Bella's buttons, but Bella's not done with his.

He would laugh—because Bella's lack of dexterity is causing her to fumble with the buttons—but he's already gripping Bella's knees so hard to deal with the tension that he's afraid his going to leave bruises.

He pushes her hands away. He takes over and then both buttons are nimbly undone, and he's pushing her shirt sleeves down her arm, and his thinking _beautiful, beautiful_ again because the slope from the top of her neck to the line of her breast is so unbelievably delicate, and her skin is so perfect, clear and fair, and it's glowing, but he's able to touch it and know that it's her, and that they're both here, and that there are no barriers. No glass.

He can touch her. She can touch him. He can make love to her.

He realizes he's going to—which shouldn't surprise him, but it does all the same, and with the realization, comes the need to explain everything.

Bella's leaning in to kiss him when he stops her to slow them both down.

"Bella, there's so much I need to explain," he whispers.

She smiles at him. "No, Edward, really. Rose and I talked—I understand—"

He cuts her off with a kiss, only to quickly try and explain, "I was an ignorant, young fool when I first met Rose. The consequence of having everything handed to me and never questioning it. Rose appeared to be everything that I had come to expect. I had seen so little of the world that I could make no comparisons and see no defects." And I was such a fucking tool... he recalls, grimacing at the memory.

He expects Bella to nod or be understanding or simply kiss him again, but instead her nose wrinkles, and she shrugs. "Eh, maybe because she doesn't have any?"

Which makes him laugh.

He's still smiling when he mumbles, "I'm glad I can finally laugh with you. I couldn't laugh before—no matter how funny you were." He smirks slightly as he says, "I felt like I was locked outside the nursery window."

"_Not _the nursery window, Peter," she jokes back, but then her smile falls, and she whispers, "I always kept it open."

She did keep it open, so he yanks her against him, his lips pressing into her forehead, and confessing as much as rambling, "Bella, you are my perfect. I have dreamed about blushing cheeks and chocolate eyes since the day I met you. Seeing you at work was always the highlight and misery of my day."

She's staring back at him with a sense of wonder that he doesn't understand. "These green eyes," he hears her whisper.

He keeps talking, needing to explain, "Bella, I tried to find you that night, I mean, the night of the Christmas Party."

That admission finally seems to take the light out of her eyes, and she glances down before she admits, "You didn't find me, well not until..."

She doesn't finish.

He doesn't want to let her. He holds her tighter. "I have you now, is that enough?"

She nods. "Yes."

His voice sounds odd and high and ready to break, but he asks, "I'm in love with you, is that enough?"

Her eyes seem to grow impossibly bigger, and then her lips are moving, and the words, "I love you," are shaped upon them.

Once again, it's almost confusing. He wants to ask her how near-strangers, how smart, competent, and clinically sane people can utter such promises, and yet believe them to be true with such total instinct that they're willing to drop all the supposed rules that the rest of the world insists upon to fly off fancy free toward this sudden magic. He wants to ask her and pick her brain and dissect what about them defies logic down to its last neutron, but he has her feminine weight in his arms, and he has her watching him with flushed cheeks, and she's partially naked in this cold corporate office with commercial carpeting and overstock furniture.

Her hands are still touching his face, and he kisses the inside of her palm before pulling her hips tightly against his torso, and then her head rolls back slightly, and the sight of her closed eyes, clenched jaw, and the way her neck is so exposed, Edward tackles the distance from collar bone to jaw with a wet swipe of his tongue, and she moans, and her legs squeeze tight around him while her hands are on his sides, and then Bella pushes him back, and then her head is shaking as if he's frustrating her in some way, and her fingers are attacking his buckle—an action which goes right to his dick—and then her unbuckling is causing her breasts to move and shiver in her bra in the most mind boggling ways—and he doesn't exactly want to halt the process going on with his buckle, but he also desperately wants to touch and cup her, so his fingers slide along the fabric, nudging at the curves, and then reach over her shoulders to find the clasp in the back.

She finishes with the buckle and buttons first, though, and she looks so remarkably proud of herself that he relinquishes his assault on her bra to do away with his pants, and he hops out of them, while she stands to slide out of hers, and then they are just in underwear, and it's goofy and erotic, but _he wants her fucking bra_ _off_, so he jerks her back to him so that he can finish the job, and then it's off, and her body is before him, lit by the city-lights and shivering from the after-hours chill, and he just _wants _her, so he pushes them back until her ass knocks against the desk, and he pushes her back, more still, but his hands catch her head and lower back before she falls too fast, and then her mouth is open beneath his, and her breasts are full, and he has to kiss them and lick down and around, and Bella's body tenses beneath the licks, jerking away, so that he has to chase her skin, and chase it he does, and Bella is not quiet at all anymore but whimpering and gasping, and releasing the occasional long and low moan. The moaning coincides with her hips grinding into him, and he realizes that he's so unbelievably riled that he needs to either stop or come immediately. But no, he doesn't want that. He wants to come inside of her.

He pulls her up to him, and then his fingers search out the straps on the sides of her hips, and then he's kneeling and tugging, and there's the clash of white, highlighted thighs with dark shadow between, and Edward almost wants to stop and focus completely on her right there, but then she's already stood and her hands are tugging on his boxers, so he finishes with them, and then they are...

Their skin is covered in goose bumps except where their bodies touch, and he releases a string of low curses, because her teeth are cutting into his neck and her hair is tickling his shoulder and back, and he can feel her nipples hard against his chest and how soft her stomach is when his dick is pressed into it with her hips rocking slowly as they sway, and then she changes the angle and he's running through soft curls instead, and then he feels the wetness, which makes him press and grind harder, and he almost grabs her hips, lifts her up, and pushes in—but he stops himself.

He doesn't want this to be fast and rapid and over. He wants eyes contact. He wants to know everything she's feeling and see it directly.

He sits down.

Bella stands above him still breathing hard and looking lost.

He pulls on her ankles instead of speaking.

She leans forward, and his hands are sliding up the back of her tensing calves, but then Bella's foot slides too far left, and she jerks forward and her arms flail out, but—

But he catches her.

His hands are on her waist, and she's naked and open in his arms, and all he can say is, "I caught you."

Bella smirks back at him. "You did."

"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to catch you," he explains, his breath still catching.

"I fall a lot," she murmurs.

"I _know_." He nods. "You nearly gave me a heart attack every time," and then he pulls her to his chest, so that she's warm and low and close.

"Well, why didn't you ever catch me?" she tries to tease, but it isn't just teasing. Her voice cracks at the end.

"I wouldn't have been able to let you go," he admits, and he wonders what would have happened if he'd ever caught her in a hallway. If he'd ever held her uninhibited in his arms.

Guilt, his old friend, passes through him, but then Bella is leaning towards him again, and her expression is sheer happiness and lust, and he's worrying about going soft with this stress of the string of regretful confessions but then the texture of her rubbing against him brings him right back, and her tongue flicks out and gives extra attention to his bottom lip, and it's slick and wet and hot, and then all he can think about is what's waiting for him between her legs and how it's wet and hot and slick, and she's rocking upward, so he holds her there and adjusts himself, and then he feels the start of the tension and the heat, and he's watching her eyes flutter at the same time that his eyes want to roll back into his head, and it's all he can do to not ram her down, so he's digging his fingers into her hips, and she's lowering herself and shaking as they meet, and her lips are swollen and her hair is frizzing and she looks so fucking gorgeous and disheveled and fucking hell, _she feels amazing_, and when he's all the way inside of her, the look in her eyes is honest and open and...

Then he realizes that tears are forming.

But she's not sad. He knows it, even as he kisses the tears away, because her hips are flowing with his hips, and she isn't smiling but her mouth is open brushing against his, and she feels loose against him even as he feels her muscles flexing and releasing beneath his hands.

They're lost in the up and down and gasps of pleasure until the "up" part becomes harder because his legs are getting sweaty and sticky, and Bella is looking amused, but he wipes the hint of a giggle off her face when he tightens her against him and rolls them over on the floor.

Then her legs are around him, and her heels are digging into his ass, and below him her hair is splayed on the carpet, while their mouths are open and brushing and moaning and gasping while they look, while they stare, while he moves in and out of her. They're partially shaded from the city light by her desk, so that every time they rock forward, the shadow moves across her face, and he's playing catch with the highlight that seems to dance all over both irises as it fades and brightens.

Her hands comb through his hair, pulling at it with a lazy strokes, as if the fact that he's pounding her into the floor is the most natural thing that he could be doing, and it's only when her nails start to scratch and her eyes go hazy at the same time that her head jerks back and her mouth is stretched open with a loud continuous, rolling moan. He simply gets off on watching her—because her face is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and he wants to whisper in her ear that he wants to do that _again_ and _again _and _again_, just so that he can see her fall apart this way.

But then her eyes are open, and she's smiling almost shyly and nodding at him, and so he moves with more speed until the exertion and pleasure combine and his jaw snaps shut and his teeth grind, although he's still forcing himself to watch her, and then she's feathering his face with kisses when he finally releases inside of her.

Then they just are.

They are a sweaty, knotted, sex-smelling heap.

He's listening to Bella's breaths, slow and steady, and he's thinking of all of the ridiculous grieving and imagining that has gone into this wanting her and only being able to imagine her, but now he has her, and he has to conclude that no conception on his part could possibly have added up—because she's better than the dream—she's not just a pretty painting to be ogled. She's _his _landscape—she's the dreamscape with cragged, high mountains and a rushing river. She's his dream made real and in the flesh.

He whispers in her ear, "This is permanent."

She shivers and kisses him and smiles.

But he wants her to know that he means it completely. He doesn't want to half-ass anything anymore. He doesn't want plan and hesitation. He wants her in every way, and he doesn't want to wait for tomorrow or next week or next year, so he lifts up slightly, even as he keeps their position, and his hand traces her stomach, stroking the shallow dips. He's imagining a fireplace, an ugly but happy dog from the local pound, white sheets, and Bella full with his child and smiling as he strokes her just like this. His future.

"Are you on anything?" he asks.

"Like the pill?"

He nods.

She nods back.

"Please stop taking it."

She gives him an incredulous look. "Are you planning on knocking me up?"

He hopes that's okay, because he's hard all over again, and so he bites her neck, while thrusting inside of her and murmuring, "That's exactly what I'm planning on doing."

Bella's tone is caught between a half-moan and gritty sarcasm as she manages to say, "Oh, and if I pop out a kid, are you planning on marrying me, too?"

"Is tomorrow, okay?" he proposes.

She gasps.

He laughs, because she's going along with it—she's not protesting it—she wants him—and there's nothing more perfect.

He kisses her through her moan, and then he breaks away to repeat, "I told you, Bella, Bella, my Bella. This is permanent."

* * *

**Yay! Okay, I think there's going to be an epilogue, but I haven't written it yet... but I'll get on that. Anyhoo, thanks to all for reading!!!**


	8. Epilogue to PoP and S&I

**Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer and her peeps. Not me.**

**I struggled with writing this a bit, because it really is the epilogue for Sin, too and not just The Price of Permanence... The story sorta stands complete on its own, but this is more of a little tie-up-a-few-loose-themes sorta thing for both stories.**

**Thanks to ElleCC who is a mad genius.**

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

"What time is it?" he gasped. He knew they were taking too long. They should have left five minutes ago.

"Fuck the time," she sputtered at the same moment that her nails dug into his shoulder. Then her hips shifted, and all logical thought went...

"_Fuck_..." he groaned out.

"—the time," she finished the sentence for him.

He laughed—then groaned again because she was doing that roll-thing with her hips.

He grabbed her hips and started to move her faster against him, his lips attacking under her jaw, when she burst out, "Wait! Wait, turn! Need to turn."

"Turn?" Edward murmured, not stopping.

"My knees—are... too—_raw_."

Edward halted, stilling their movements. "From before?" he asked.

"From the _dozen_ times before."

"Mmmmm." He hummed back to her even as he rolled the two of them over, and then they were shifting together again. Her beneath him, supple and alive with legs clenched around him and the rough of her heels scraping back and forth across his ass.

But then he realized his knees were sore, too. They really fucking stung.

But also that the pain didn't matter.

Because one of Bella's hands was pulling hard on the hair at the base of his neck and the other arm was arched back high while her mouth shot open as her eyes squeezed shut and her whole body lifted, and a long, "Edwaaa..." began that started low in the back of her throat but went into the upper octaves as he sped up and thrust harder, and they both forgot about their knees and anything called pain, and moved and pushed and pulled until they both cried out, tensing and tight together.

When they finally relaxed, they lay together, panting and warm and, admittedly, rather sore.

Edward kissed the silver band on her finger. "I'll get you something nicer," he said.

"But I like this." She pointed at his finger. "It matches yours."

"You don't want a diamond?"

"I had one. I don't want another. I like this better." Her finger circled the metal.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back before patting his shoulder with a quick _slap-slap_. "Time to go?" she asked.

He laughed and pulled her off the bed.

* * *

"A drink, dear? Wouldn't you like something with a bit of a zip to it? Irish coffee, some espresso liqueur with a dash of cream, a Mimosa, Bloody Mary, Melon Patch, or just a simple screwdriver, dear? We have good vodka—so I assure you it will balance nicely—"

"—_Mom_—" Edward attempted to interrupt.

"—with the juice—but of course, we have a rather full wet bar, so please feel free to request any others because I would never want you to feel like you couldn't ask, and even with the... _odd_ circumstances," and here Esme paused for the first time, frowning, before seeming to realize her breach of etiquette, "but really, dear, you're my new daughter-in-law—if somewhat unexpectedly—and shockingly I seem to be the only one truly shocked by it, so Bloody Mary? Yes? Bloody Mary it is?" Esme answered for them before either Edward or Bella could muster a reply.

Carlisle came into the room. "Hello, children!" he greeted with a wave of his glass. Some of the clear liquid sloshed onto the white carpeting.

Esme, for once, didn't seem to notice. She was impatiently looking at Edward and Bella.

"I'll have coffee with milk, thanks," Bella replied with only the smallest of smiles.

"The same," Edward agreed.

Esme only looked slightly put out, before smiling and cheerfully amending, "I'll add a shot of Bailey's!" and then bustling off to the other room.

Then they were alone with Carlisle.

"Edward, Bella—come have a seat. Someone needs to explain to your dear mother why she went over to visit your brother only to find _him_ 'occupied' with _Rosalie_ while little Del explained to her that Rosalie was her new 'mommy' and that Uncle Edward had a new 'lady.'"

"It's pretty simple, Dad. Rosalie and I should have admitted along time ago that we would never have worked—especially when..." and here Edward winced, "it turns out that she should have been with Emmett. I shouldn't have been able to fall for Bella if Rosalie had been the one for me, and as for Bella," Edward turned and smiled at her. She smiled back. "She's willing to put up with me, it seems." To which Carlisle laughed, and Bella rolled her eyes. "When it comes down to it, we talked it all out. I think we were all being a pack of idiots, honestly," he added at the end, because after the fact the whole affair sounded rather ridiculous when spoken aloud, even to himself.

"And then you got married the next day." Carlisle chuckled, and with another swish of his glass, replied, "Doesn't seem like _talking_ has much to do with it."

Bella, at his side, jerked away with laughter, unable to keep a straight face.

Carlisle started laughing too, then—looking rather pleased that someone thought he was funny.

Squeezing her hands tightly together, Bella looked up and smiled at Carlisle. "I think everything that has happened was as unexpected to us as it might be to you—but I also think that we have the best of all possible outcomes.'"

Carlisle dipped his head in acknowledgement, and his glass dipped perilously along with him, and Edward just barely managed to grab it by the stem before it capsized.

"Well, not to worry," Carlisle continued, "I think you're great, Bella."

Bella laughed again, teasing back, "And I think you're darned swell, Carlisle."

Carlisle beamed at her. "Oh, and Esme thinks you're wonderful, too. I just think she's a bit overwhelmed by everything at the moment. Oh, and Rosalie and Emmett are getting married in the spring, and Del will be a flower girl, which Esme will adore—once she realizes it's okay for her to adore it—and then it will all be fine!"

"It will," Edward agreed, and he looked at Bella, he believed it.

* * *

They broke apart as they heard the threat of approaching footsteps.

A rough, hollow knock at the door made Bella jump slightly in his arms.

Edward opened the door the second Bella finished straightening the dress.

Though wearing a white tuxedo, Emmett looked ever boyish as he sighed, "Edward, you suck so badly as a best man."

"Err... sorry?" Edward failed to wipe the grin out of the apology.

"Whatever—now, _out_—the both of you—and Bella, it would appear that you have a mop strand in your hair..." Eyes rolling, Emmett stomped away.

Edward looked longingly back at the closet.

"You really do have to go. Rosalie will roast your balls and twist my nipples off if we cause any delay."

Edward nodded. "I know. I know," he muttered, but then he smiled as he reach to untangle the long mop thread from the hair on her shoulder.

She kissed his cheek one final time. "We'll talk after, okay?"

* * *

The wedding was nice. Rosalie had said "no one is going to cry at my wedding," and yet she was the first one to start leaking tears—that was until Emmett got teary, too, which made Rosalie laugh, which made _everyone_ laugh.

Then there was the reception.

Edward had both his and Bella's champagne glasses in his hands. He was carefully balancing them in each of his hands and was preparing to set them down on the table when a blaze of red suddenly blew past him and launched itself at his wife.

"It is Bella!" a small red-haired woman proclaimed.

"Oh, um, Poo--_fuck_--Victoria," Bella stumbled out.

Rosalie chose that moment to swoop over in her wedding dress. "Bella, you know Victoria?" she asked incredulously.

"YES!" Victoria declared with loud delight.

"Huh, small world. Victoria was in my law school class," Rosalie explained.

"Oh, really?" Bella said. "I know Victoria through a friend." Edward couldn't help but notice Bella's voice was a bit high, and that her tell-tale blush was high in her cheeks.

"Rose, you look soooo beeeautiful," Victoria declared, seeming already bored with introductions. "As always, I like your hair."

"Oh, but I always liked your hair. Red hair is so rare," Rosalie argued, smiling at her friend.

"Bella has nice hair, too," Victoria added, winking at Bella.

Edward glanced over at Bella expecting to see her wearing her usual sardonic expression that graced her face whenever anyone talked about something like hair or shopping. Instead, Bella's face was unmistakably redder. When he saw her flinch, he glanced over to see Victoria pointing from Rosalie's hair to her own red locks to Bella and nodding with a look that was wicked and highly... _suggestive._

Was she actually implying...? On Rosalie's wedding day! And with his wife! That was... Edward felt the sudden tightening in his pants and started trying to imagine old, curdled lady butt.

"How's James?" Bella blurted.

"He's great! But he wouldn't come to this. He said he 'refuses to participate in archaic breeding rituals,'" Victoria explained with a rueful expression.

"You always picked weird ones," Rosalie muttered, shaking her head, while absently watching Emmett dance the Macarena with Del.

Bella made a funny squeak.

"Are you okay, Bella?" Edward asked, curling a hand protectively around her waist.

Bella looked up at him in horror, as if just now realizing that he was standing there and bearing witness to the strange exchange.

Bella said, "Have to pee!" and suddenly dashed through the crowd.

Victoria, Rosalie, and Edward watched her go.

But then Victoria started clapping and turned to him to ask, "Are you going to have a baby?"

Edward blinked. "Er... no?"

###################

Love-at-first-sight is only the beginning and not the end. After the debut of passionate rapport and the victory dance found with transcendent fucking, the remainder of this unlikey love is found in the details of sweet affinity: the way she curls up in the recliner, finger unconsciously tracing her lips as she listens to him play on the piano; the way she laughs when she talks to Emmett or Carlisle, and how she chides him for being too hard on Rosalie.

Then, the bigger pieces as well: the both of them sitting at the dinner table in Edward's apartment, Bella mapping out the pros and cons of all possible futures while he focuses far too much on all the cons, at which point Bella smacks his thigh, points with the pen to the page, and says, "Future, here. Focus."

They map it out. He stays at the company for another year and a half. It's not so bad with an end in sight and her at his side. Bella works it out so that she's transferred to a more flexible position. Her new job will allow her to mostly work from home. Edward finds a job in a small town as a music teacher. They move.

His family is not happy about the move, but then they're too busy living their own lives to interfere with his, for once. Rosalie is expecting. Del is entering kindergarten. Carlisle and Esme are in Haiti for Doctors Without Borders. Emmett makes a lot of jokes, but then offers to help them move in.

Two weeks after the move, they have their own personal wine and chocolate party in celebration because all boxes are "visibly" unpacked (and the boxes pushed into the back of closets do not count).

Outside, it begins to rain. They stand under the overhang of the back porch and watch the drops fall. There's a creek at the bottom of the hill, and Edward watches alongside Bella as the creek slowly begins to fill, and then finally, flow. They say nothing as debris and mud and silt get washed away with every new and odd drop that joins.

Then Bella spins in his arms.

She smiles up at him as he catches her hips.

"It's pretty warm, even with the rain. Do you want to...?" she trails off, but her eyes point to the creek.

Before she can say anything else, Edward has her over his shoulder. She's shrieking and laughing as he walks them down the hill.

He throws them both into the current.

* * *

**End note:**

**Happy Hols. Hugs and Kisses and more hugs to all of ya. -P.**


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